


When all is said and done and dead

by stargazers



Category: Shameless US - Fandom
Genre: M/M, different first meeting, post 5x12
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-20
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-04-16 08:21:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 28,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4618269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stargazers/pseuds/stargazers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Looking at him now, Ian wonders where Mickey's been his whole life; when Ian had affairs with married men who didn't give a fuck, when he had run off to the army, when he'd been diagnosed as bipolar, when he'd spent his whole fucking life wandering around with no one to hold.</p><p>'Sorry I'm late.'</p><p>And he can't blame Mickey for that. </p><p> </p><p>(Where Ian and Mickey have never known love until it's all over)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. you and me are the difference between real love and the love on TV

**Author's Note:**

> Just to clarify:  
> Everything is the same for both Ian and Mickey except for the fact that they've never met/don't know each other. 
> 
> Also, this hasn't been beta-read so let me know if there are any mistakes!<3

Ian hasn’t known love in his life. Hasn’t stumbled upon it with a cute waiter from the diner across the road, hasn’t felt it knock against his heart when the man he has just jerked off smiles at him under flashing lights. It would be easier to say that South Side Chicago doesn’t have the time or place for love, but that couldn’t be farther from the truth. He sees love around him all the time, like a glowing red aura in their monochromatic, dreary excuse for a neighborhood; the brilliance in Fiona’s eyes when she passes Sean in their clustered workplace, the warm blush filling Debbie’s cheeks when Lip tells her Derek stopped by while she was out. Ian’s just glad he’s gotten over the disappointment when that same warm glow doesn’t pass over to him.

He can’t say he doesn’t feel loved, though, Ian isn’t that blind or ungrateful. He feels love coursing through his family day and night like a steady heart beat every time they gather around their wobbly dinner table, every time they huddle together on the couch to watch another documentary. But Ian isn’t blind enough to think that feeling loved and falling in love are the same thing, and he’s long over the fact that things are, well, _different_ for him. Maybe he’s just really shitty at it – there’s not much a Bipolar, gay teenager could have to offer anyone, anyway - and so fate or whatever undefeatable force that’s out there decides to steer him away from it, but damn. Seeing Fiona and Sean, Debbie and Derek, Kev and V – Ian just wants a fucking try.

‘Chop, chop, Redhead! Plates don’t clean themselves,’ Sean says with a slap to Ian’s back and it jolts him enough to slam his bowl full of dishes into a nearby table. Grinning, Sean slips away as quickly as he appeared and Ian’s left adjusting the pile of plates in his plastic bowl. When he looks up again, Fiona is arching her eyebrows from across the room, holding a thumb up in question and he nods hurriedly because the last thing he needs is Fiona feeling like Ian can’t wash a couple of fucking dishes. It bugs him how she’s always on his radar, how she snaps her head up when he’s interacting with someone or doing something other than drifting around Patsy’s Pies like a ghost, but he knows the intentions behind it are sincere so he lets it slide.

Yeah, plates don’t clean themselves.

-

‘You don’t have to do this, y’know.’

There it is, like every single time. Ian has to hold in a laugh because since when did Lip get so predictable? It’s routine, now; Lip driving him up to Boys Town, crinkling his nose in silent disgust as he parks his car in front of Fairy Tale and it’s only a matter of time before he brings up the same argument. The only difference is that this time there’s a sense of resignation in his voice, like he’s giving it one last try, and Ian can’t bring himself to be pissed off.

 _Misunderstood_ -that’s something Ian can bring himself to feel. He lets out a small laugh this time and stares out of the frosted window, Lips intense gaze burning holes in his temple. Of course Lip would think Ian is being forced into this out of obligation or financial difficulties or whatever the fuck goes through his mind that has fuck all to do with the fact that Ian is a person, and people have choices, and maybe, just maybe, Ian likes working here. Maybe he likes the way the loud music pounds in time to his heart beat, or the way dancing on a platform makes him feel a little less like the person he is right now.

‘I know,’ is all he says and spares Lip a small smile before grabbing his bag and leaping out of his brother’s rickety old truck. The cold hits him hard but it doesn’t really get to him, it never has, and he makes his way across the road to the entrance of the club.

 ‘Yo!,’ and Ian looks back in time to catch the coat Lip tosses out from his car window and nods gratefully, like he’s not about to shed every single article of clothing but a pair of booty shorts in the next ten minutes. Still, it’s the thought that counts, so Ian calls out a ‘Thanks!’ because Lip is still waiting outside his club with a strange look on his face, like he wants to say something but can’t bring himself to say it.

Ian’s thankful when one of the men loitering around the street stumble towards Lip’s car with very clear intentions and that’s all it takes for Lip’s hesitant, brotherly concern to be replaced with a puff of smoke from his car. Fiona is all he can tolerate; Ian doesn’t know what he’ll do if Lip starts babying him around, too.

He’s just in time to see Jake hop off his platform, a frown itched deep into his soft features as he runs a hand through his dark hair, and Ian can’t help but to grin as he approaches his friend.

‘What’s the matter now, Jakey?,’ he exaggerates with a sigh as Jake looks up to glare at him before muttering under his breath. Ian has to strain his ears to hear what he mumbles over the sound of the pounding music around them.

‘Won’t let me wear glasses and I fucking hate lenses,’ is what Ian catches and he grins wider.

‘Didn’t know you wanted to see these old prunes in high definition.’

‘Nah, I wanna see _you_ in high definition so I can kick your ass,’ Jake finally grins, barely giving Ian time to side step a kick as he lunges forward.

‘Glasses don’t do the impossible!,’ he calls out as he dashes to the changing room, ignoring the strange looks he gets as he sees Jake flip him off with a grin.

He feels better already.

-

It’s a whole lot better than Patsy’s Pies for sure, and more comforting, almost. It gives Ian a sense of reassurance that if shit gets bad and he wakes up with a gut-wrenching feeling in his stomach and demons behind his eyes, he can lie in bed and skip his shift until they go away and no one would know about it at the club. It feels nice to be known as ‘Redhead’ or ‘Gingersnap’ at his workplace rather than ‘that bipolar brother of Fiona’s who ran away from the army’. It would feel even nicer to be known as ‘Ian’, but that’s pushing it. Especially how he doesn’t even know who ‘Ian’ is supposed to be.

He feels eyes clinging to him like the sweat on his body as soon as he steps off the platform and it gives Ian a well-needed confidence boost as he gulps down his bottle of water, tapping his foot to the beat of the music. It’s an old, typical club song, and Ian rolls his eyes at the words ‘I make them good girls go bad’, because seriously. What is this song supposed to do for a bunch of gay men?

Still, he closes his eyes, enjoying the music for a moment and imagining life somewhere else, as someone else. He wouldn’t change who he was if he had the chance, or trade his family for anything, but it’s both uplifting and devastatingly crushing to imagine getting out and having a chance at life. If it weren’t for their situation, he would have laughed at himself for being so melodramatic, except these were the kind of things teenagers thought about in their hood, along with how much weed they’d have to sell to pay the electricity bill and if they’ve saved enough for heating in the winter.

Someone knocks into his shoulder, hard, and Ian instinctively snaps his eyes open and moves to the side. Apparently he’d been out of it for longer than he thought because the club is suddenly split between practically empty on one side and a whole crowd of people shouting and arguing on the other, and of course, Ian is stood smack in the middle with no idea what the fuck is going on.

He sees a flash of black hair and reaches out to grab Jake by the shoulder, who turns around with a concerned expression and a phone in hand.

‘Milkoviches,’ is all he says before darting back into the fray, and if that’s supposed to be some sort of explanation, it’s sorely lacking any information.

Sure, he’s heard of them, the black-haired blue-eyed siblings that inhabit the dark house down the road, but that’s all they do. They just mark their presence even though they’re not to be seen anywhere most of the time, other than dark alleys and junkyards and 99% of the places Ian avoids.

Mostly he hears things from Lip in the vague phrases he tosses around; ‘don’t wanna piss off the Milkoviches’ or ‘Milkovich shooting down the block, don’t go out,’ and it frustrates Ian. He has the urge to bang on their door and get a good look at each and every one of them and see what’s so mystical or frightening about them that has people staying the fuck away. But he kind of also wants to live, so that hasn’t been an option.

Ian’s tired of being ostracized so he follows Jake towards the growing crowd, and he can’t really see or hear anything of importance. A typical bar fight, maybe, except he can’t make out a single word being said.

The jaw-cracking punch, though, is something else.

Some man in a grey suit falls flat onto his back, too out of it to clutch his bleeding nose, and suddenly people are diving in, the security mostly. Jake, hovering in front of him moments before, disappears before his eyes and fuck, that has to be the stupidest thing to do, but Ian isn’t about to lose him so he delves in after him, shoving people aside. He finds him struggling to get a dark haired man off another patron and before Ian can help him, the man head butts him hard, knocking him out cold.

That’s it.

Grabbing the man’s shirt, he tears him off of somebody and drags him out of the circle to get enough room to pack a hard punch into his stomach. He turns to the place he last saw Jake’s unconscious body but is suddenly hauled back by a hard grip on his shoulder, and fuck it, he should have expected the fucker to take a punch. Before he can shrug him off, he’s being thrown onto the ground with an insistent pressure on his ribs and it’s enough to crush the air out of him as the scene around him bleeds to a hazy black.

‘Fucking twink, think you can take me on? Fucking try…’ is all he catches before he feels his mind go blank.

So much for ROTC.

And suddenly he can breathe again, the toxic, sweaty reek of the air flooding his lungs all at once and it’s so fucking painful.

‘The fuck man? You got your pay, now go! What you hopin’ kicking around some twinks will do?’

‘He punched me first,’ Ian can hear the man mutter and something in his voice tells Ian that he’s dealing with someone higher up on whatever fucked up hierarchy they have than him.

‘Boo fucking hoo! What’re ya, a kid? Let’s get the hell outta here before some piece of shit calls the cops.’

Ian hears a shuffle of feet and then he’s looking up into the bluest pair of eyes he’s ever seen, a hint of concern swimming in the more prominent irritation.

‘You okay, kid?’

He wants to point out that they look the same fucking age, but he can only manage a nod. A burning feeling scorches through him, holding him in place, and if he hadn’t known better, he’d think it was from the man’s piercing stare. It’s probably from his broken ribs.

‘Gonna marry him or something? Hurry the fuck up, Mickey!,’ the other man calls, and ‘Mickey’ takes one last look at Ian before dashing away from the scene.

The next 15 minutes blur together like different colored ink; someone lifting him up and tightening bandages over his ribs, Jake reporting what pills will interfere with his bipolar medication, Fiona’s worried voice over the phone.

 _Fucking Milkoviches,_ is all he thinks before the pills take him out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know if I should continue with this ??  
> Thanks for reading!


	2. i could keep your number for a rainy day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A memory comes to mind, seeing her walk over to him as he waits; that time she came to pick Mickey up from Juvie, looking so small and out of place against the off-white wall. He still remembers her soft smile as he pulled her in for a hug, the same smile she held the entire way home, and really. Mickey doesn’t need anyone else when he’s got her.

Mickey hasn’t known love in his life and never will. That’s as plain to see as the blue of the sky and to be honest, Mickey’s fine with that. Though it’s never spoken aloud, he knows he has something with his brothers, some shitty form of trust but trust nonetheless that has him dropping all his shit and meeting Iggy whenever he says he’s in trouble, that has them all rounded up down the block with baseball bats swung over their shoulders when someone messes with them. He has something even deeper with Mandy that isn’t spoken aloud either, like voicing it would shatter the illusion that they’re like any other brother and sister, that Mickey would go to the end of the world for her.

And recently, there’s something else that makes Mickey’s life just that little bit more bearable – Yevgeny – though he wouldn’t admit it to anyone even if he were held at gunpoint. Mickey’s not a father, doesn’t know how to be, but having a conversation across the room and hearing the baby giggle at something only he finds funny eases the tension in his shoulders after a long day of working under greasy cars or harassing people down the street. And then there’s Svet; this insistent, constant presence that sometimes speaks too much and other times not at all through Mickey’s dark life and there’s something about knowing that there’s someone in it all with him, seeing everything he sees and still managing to remain sane that gives him hope. Not to mention she makes the best fucking eggs ever.

So, yeah, fuck love. He doesn’t need to hold someone’s hand or whisper shit in their ear to make him happy.

He already is.

-

‘You’re getting too soft, Mick,’ Iggy calls out as he slams the door shut to his car, as if escaping the scene at the club and reaching home gives him the right to fucking say shit about Mickey, because it doesn’t.

‘Watch it,’ he says quietly, stepping up to the front door and pushing it open with his shoulder, because for some reason, he doesn’t feel like getting into it with Iggy. Maybe it’s the quiet night air around them that’s begging to be undisturbed or the absence of Yevgeny’s chair in the living room that stirs a strange, almost nostalgic feeling within him. It’s stupid and unwanted and it pisses him off.

He grabs a beer from the fridge before trudging to his room and the click of the door shutting is too loud in the house. It’s not necessarily a bad thing – he doesn’t want to remember all the times the house was filled with Terry’s roaring and glass smashing and whatever the fuck else, but he also feels the absence of Mandy and Tony and fuck, even Svetlana. She sleeps with Kevin and his wife some nights for a reason Mickey can’t grasp, but he can’t really blame her for making friends and having a normal life. As normal as it can get as a Milkovich, that is.

Seconds from drifting off to sleep, Mickey finds himself thinking about the kid at the club and his pale, freckled skin and fiery red hair. He feels a smirk tug on his lips at the thought; the kid probably hadn’t taken a beating in his entire life, but that didn’t match up with the solid punch he threw at Iggy. It was impressive to say the least, both the punch that left an angry purple bruise and the kid’s balls to take on a Milkovich.

Any other day and he would have left the two at it, probably started collecting betting money for whoever made it out alive – which judging by the foot Iggy had pressed into his side, it wouldn’t be the redhead. But for whatever reason he had dived right into it and shoved his brother off and then had to think of an excuse for his impulsive action.

He can still see the kid’s bright green eyes, wide and dilated, and what really shocks Mickey is that there was not a single hint of fear in them. He wasn’t scared to get beaten to a pulp, wasn’t scared to die and he wasn’t scared of Mickey.

That shouldn’t be as endearing as it was.

-

Mickey wakes up to the vibration of his phone against the bedside table, waiting for it to die out before grabbing at it blindly from under the covers. It’s probably Adrien at the car mechanics, begging Mickey to switch shifts with him yet again. Not that he minds; getting his hands dirty is something Mickey excels in. Fixing things, too, for that matter.

It has him sitting up straight in bed when the message is from an unknown number, but the ridiculous insult gives her away.

**[ L, 4:45. Don’t be late, asshat. ]**

He can’t stop the blossoming grin if he tried.

-

He gets there early but stays a decent distance away from the station Mandy’s supposed to get off at, leaning against a rusty railing with a cigarette dangling in between his fingers. People walk around him, chattering and laughing and he sees two men hugging like it’s the end of the world. Mickey scoffs, stomping the cigarette underneath his boot and looking away to where the train has finally pulled in.

He could do that, too. He could hug some guy in front of a crowd full of people and no one would bat an eye. Hell, he could even do it in front of the people in the Alibi, the place he came out. To this day, Mickey has no idea what came over him that night. It wasn’t like he had anyone to come out for; those quick fucks in the back alley didn’t give two shits if he was out in the open or a closeted son of the town’s biggest fag-basher. If he really had to think about it, it would be down to the fact that it was miserable and frustrating to lock away a part of yourself and the anger ate him up from the inside until he just couldn’t take it anymore. The beating he took afterwards was pretty pointless really, but _fuck,_ it felt so good to grin at the thought of being free, blood drying in the chill of December’s air.

Some small part of him wishes he had someone to do it for.

The train pulls in and he waits for his sister to step out and he grins because she’s still the same. Apart from the fact that her hair’s a dirty-blonde, her scowl is the one he grew up learning to love, her lanky frame hunching forward as she hauls her bag across the platform.

A memory comes to mind, seeing her walk over to him as he waits; that time she came to pick Mickey up from Juvie, looking so small and out of place against the off-white wall. He still remembers her soft smile as he pulled her in for a hug, the same smile she held the entire way home, and really. Mickey doesn’t need anyone else when he’s got her.

‘You’re not late,’ Mandy states with her head cocked to the side, and Mickey grins back before she’s throwing herself into his arms. That nostalgic feeling he’s been having ever since the fight in Boys Town grows and Mickey realizes how much he needs this.

‘When am I ever?,’ he mumbles, still grinning, and he’s about to pull back when Mandy digs her fists further into his back. He chuckles softly, allowing himself to lower his guard and let his thug, fuck u-up persona to slip for a small moment.

‘How’s Indiana?’

Mandy just sighs as she pulls back, frowning before thumping him hard in the chest.

‘Could’ve called, dickhead.’

‘The fuck? Not like you had a number to call, dumbass!’

Rolling her eyes, Mandy stuffs her trolley bag into Mickey’s arms before walking in front of him, and for once, Mickey doesn’t mind following.

-

Mandy slips right into her old life like she’d never left, and after bringing up Indiana a couple of times, Mickey gives up trying. She doesn’t want to talk about it other than the fact that it’s hot and how the autumns are better over there. Neither of them brings up Kenyatta.

Of course, Mandy being Mandy, she demands to have a gathering with Svetlana and Yevgeny outside of the house just because she can, and Mickey finds himself scouting the streets for some ridiculous sounding diner. He draws the line when Mandy tosses him a black dress shirt, though. He’s not getting fucking married, for fuck’s sake.

He’s just about done trying to look for wherever his family is supposed to be when he spots Svetlana laughing at a table, presumably talking to the mass of blonde hair that’s Mandy. Grumbling, Mickey steps into the diner and the first thing he picks up is the sweet smell of maple syrup as he warily takes in his surroundings. The people are chattering, too engrossed in their personal conversations to take notice of Mickey and his mess of a family, so he decides it’s okay to sit there.

‘Could’ve given me the fucking address,’ he mutters before sitting down next to Mandy, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

‘What fun would that be?,’ Svetlana smirks, feeding Yevgeny a small piece of her apple pie. He watches her for a moment, the light in her eyes as she coos at Yevgeny.

‘How d’ya get him to laugh?,’ he hears Mandy ask from next to him, and it’s so random for her to show an interest in babies laughing that it frustrates him.

‘Show him your fucking face, what’s it to you?,’ he grumbles and Mandy nudges him hard in the ribs before looking at Svetlana expectantly. Fuck, he really isn’t in the mood to play happy family with his Russian wife and psychotic sister. They’re both a lot more amusing when they’re not being so domestic and conventional.

Pulling out a cigarette, he lights it up under the table before taking a deep drag and he’s glad Svetlana only spares him a glare – he doesn’t feel like getting any lectures from her today. He snatches the pie from across the table and takes a bite, the sweet flavour relaxing his nerves.

Of course, he’s only taken a second drag when he hears a tired voice call out next to him.

‘Sir, you’re not allowed to smoke indoors…’

The man’s voice trails off and Mickey’s just about to launch into his winning argument of ‘I pay, I smoke’ when he looks up and freezes.

It’s the guy Iggy beat up, clear eyes widening as recognition flickers across them; he’d recognize that face anywhere. Only he has bags under his eyes this time, a downcast in his sharp features, but it still doesn’t take away from the fact that the guy is fucking beautiful. His hair contrasts with his pale skin pleasantly, full lips pulled into a surprised pout, and that’s when Mickey realises how fucking gay he sounds.

‘There’s a back door, if you want to smoke,’ the redhead adds, propping his bowl of dishes on the table before gesturing to the other side of the room.

Mickey tells himself it’s because he really needs a smoke when he stands up to follow the kid a couple of seconds later, ignoring Svetlana’s knowing gaze burning into his back every step he takes to the back door.

They step outside and Mickey’s glad he’s still wearing his jacket because it’s cold, and if he were anyone else he would have at least wondered why the kid is perfectly fine in a thin yellow t-shirt, loose enough to be comfortable but still moulded around his broad chest. He takes a quick glance at the guy’s biceps, partially hidden under his sleeve, and yeah, he was totally wrong about the ‘not getting into fights’ thing. He doesn’t like where his train of thought is leading so he snaps his gaze away, stuffing a cigarette into his mouth before he blurts out something stupid.

The guy just leans against the wall next to him, perfectly content staring out into the lack of view in front of them, a soft smile on his face, and Mickey feels obliged to offer him a cigarette.

‘Want a-‘

‘Nah, I quit a while ago,’ he interrupts, and Mickey thinks he must get asked it a lot. The silence is tense at best, but the guy looks like he doesn’t mind at all, and there’s a moment where Mickey thinks he’s gotten stuck with a psychopath or a junkie – why do all the hot ones have to be crazy? - until he breaks the silence.

‘Thanks for helping me out back there.’

Mickey sneaks a glance at him, but the guy is staring straight ahead, a sombre expression on his face. He just grunts in response.

‘It’s a lot more than what most people would do,’ he goes on, and Mickey thinks that this is the point where he’s supposed to tell this guy to shut the fuck up but he doesn’t. He doesn’t feel anything but honesty and a kind of…understanding in the quiet tone of his voice.

Still, he’s not used to the appreciation from a random stranger so he changes the subject.

‘So, is there somewhere you _don’t_ work? Isn’t that like a fucking fairy tale, dishwasher by day, exotic go-go dancer by night?’

The guy just laughs, soft and warm next to him and Mickey allows himself to sneak another glance at the redhead. This time he’s staring right at him, lips pulled into a smile and eyes inquisitive and Mickey feels something strange pool into his stomach.

‘Not exactly. More to do with the fact that dancing helps my…uh- yeah,’ he catches himself, clearing his throat too loudly for it to be subtle, and Mickey just raises an eyebrow before smirking. Secrets, keeping up fronts, first impressions; Mickey gets that. He would feel sorry for the kid if he weren’t stranded in the same boat.

‘Yeah, no fairy tales around here,’ he says after chucking his cigarette onto the asphalt.

There’s something in the air between them that’s setting Mickey’s nerves aflame, and the fact that the redhead doesn’t take his eyes away from Mickey doesn’t help the situation. At least he can figure out a part of the feeling within him; primal lust. It’s a shame Mickey can’t fuck people who he’s spoken more than a couple of words to, though. One of the first rules he set to make sure things ran smoothly. If he starts getting to know them or liking them – well, it makes it all too fucking messy.

It’s still a shame. Something about the redhead’s deep eyes and long fingers has Mickey’s heart thumping in earnest.

He wipes his palms on his jeans before turning to leave.

‘Hey.’

Mickey turns around with a raised eyebrow to see the guy shuffling around on his feet.

‘Come by my work again and I’ll give you something for free. As a thanks,’ he smiles, and _whoa, is he just being offered a-_

‘As in you giving me a free lap dance-‘

He’s cut off with a burst of laughter, the redhead leaning back enough to have his t-shirt ride up on his stomach, just enough to reveal a sliver of pale skin. Mickey shouldn’t be so affected after seeing the guy practically naked, but he is. What scares the fuck out of him is that he’s more affected by seeing the guy fucking _laugh_ and he knows that there’s something more than plain old sexual attraction going on here.

If it were anyone else, he would have punched the fucker, but the way this guy laughs unnerves him. He’s not laughing at Mickey, he’s just laughing. Mickey tries not to stare.

‘I meant _pie,’_ laughter bleeding into his words before his smile is replaced by a knowing smirk. ‘But I can give that to you, too, if you want.’

Something in his deep green eyes and the confident tilt of his red lips tells Mickey he’s not joking around and Mickey finds himself tightening his hands into fists by his sides. What he wants to do is yank the guy down and fist his hands into his red hair, but all Mickey ends up doing is letting out a noncommittal sound before swinging the rusty back door open.

He’s had enough of making a fool of himself to last a lifetime.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the support, everyone! I've written a few chapters ahead so I decided to update before I get too lazy :')  
> If you have any ideas/suggestions I would love to hear them because I don't really know where I'm planning to go with this!<3


	3. on cold days cold plays out like the band's name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘Army boy, eh? Fuck, is there something you can’t do?,’ and Ian blinks at him, searching Mickey’s face for sarcasm or ridicule but all he finds is genuine amazement and it feels so fucking good to be looked at like that, Mickey’s blue eyes wide and clear under the flickering lampposts. For the first time in so long, he feels like a person, not some fucked-up mental patient or a piece of meat living for the pleasure of others.
> 
> He feels like Ian.

‘Hey, baby. Sorry you’re not feeling too good, but hang in there. I can get you a break in-‘

Ian looks up at Fiona in confusion. Not feeling good? It’s been a while since he felt so fucking _amazing._

‘Nah, I’m good, Fi. Don’t worry about me,’ he grins before tugging his apron back on and grabbing the bowl of dishes out of Fiona’s hands. He can feel the gears of her brain working; can practically hear the question formulating: ‘You’ve been in bed for the past week, spent all morning in the shower, broke 4 plates in the last hour and suddenly you’re fine after taking a 5 minute break?’

But she just nods, tucking a fizzy strand of brown hair behind her ear, and Ian can’t stand to see her look so small and anxious so he pulls her in for a quick hug. He can feel the tension in her muscles relax briefly, and he pulls away to grin at her before bounding away to his dream job of scrubbing caramel sauce off of plates.

Sean should really start thinking of investing in an electronic dishwasher because Ian’s hands are blistered red from scrubbing dishes and they sting under the lemon-scented soap. Still, he can’t complain too much; he has a pretty stable job, something to do with his time and washing dishes is strangely therapeutic. Standing up all day is hell though, even worse with his bruised left rib forcing him to lean his body to the right.

_As in you giving me a free lap dance?_

Ian finds himself smiling again. Recalls the bewildered expression on Mickey’s face and the flustered, blushing one after Ian corrected him. Most of all Ian remembers those blue, blue eyes staring at him with amusement and disbelief and for a brief, brief moment, lust.

Running over their conversation in his head, Ian wants to kick himself for being so stupid. Had he actually tried flirting with Mickey? What was that pathetic thing he had said about agreeing to give him a lap dance? Sure, it was all he really wanted to do at the time, but thinking about it now, Mickey must have been disgusted.

An entire pile full of dishes later and the euphoria of finally meeting the blue-eyed figure dancing behind his eye lids for the past week dies out, dwindling like a flame into the loneliness Ian’s too used to feeling.

Mickey had no interest in him. He probably took pity on the kid he had to save once before, probably saw the hopeful expression in Ian’s wide eyes and decided to take him for a spin. Still, being in his company made Ian feel…normal. How fucked up is that; feeling at ease with a shit-talking, bitch-slapping Milkovich?

What really confuses Ian, though, is that the strange feeling of wanting to see Mickey he got from their initial meeting only grows stronger. Which doesn’t make sense- Ian wanted to see Mickey again to thank him for saving his life, right? That feeling must have been gratefulness or guilt, but he’s thanked him now. And for some reason, he still can’t get Mickey out of his head.

-

Ian takes work off at the club for at least a week; Fiona hadn’t been too happy about him getting caught up in a fight and he can’t dance with injured ribs, even though he had V take care of it. Jake assured him that his job wasn’t going anywhere; he’s in too much of a demand, apparently.  He can tell from the look Lip sends him when Ian crawls onto the living room couch instead of leaving for work at the club that he’s relieved his little brother is no longer shaking his ass around for a couple of queens.

Lip joins him a couple of minutes later, squeezing into the tiny space unoccupied by Ian’s long legs, beer in hand.

‘So you gonna’ tell me about what happened at the club?’

It’s the first time they’ve really spoken since the fight; Ian had been feeling really down. Taking his medication didn’t help, it just made him feel hollow from the inside and he didn’t need to feel that any more than he already did. Of course, Lip had taken it upon himself to haul his ass to the shower every morning and toss his dirty laundry into the washing machine. Apart from ‘food before meds, dumbass’ and ‘can you sit up to drink this?’, not many words had been exchanged between Ian and his best friend.

Resting his feet on Lip’s thighs, Ian narrows his eyes, lips tilting up into a small smile.

‘You gonna sneak me some coffee cake out the fridge?’

‘Deal,’ Lip smirks, taking another swig of his beer, motioning for Ian to start with his story. Ian sighs before launching into the shortened version of what his manager had told him before.

‘Apparently some guy owed the Milkoviches some money – for drugs or some shit – so they came to collect their pay. ‘Dunno how they got past the bouncer, but, yeah. One of ‘em knocked Jake out so I got into it with him, and the fucker was a lot stronger than he looked and pretty soon I got this. ‘ Ian pauses to gesture at his side. Lip’s staring at him with a steady expression, lips pursed in thought.

‘And then Mickey shoved him off and I survived!’ Ian finishes with a grin, poking his big toe into Lip’s torso.

‘Cake, please.’

‘Wait, wait. Mickey? As in Mickey _Milkovich?_ Wasn’t he the one attacking you in the first place? Why’d he jump ship?,’ Lip sits up, eyebrows raised. Of course he wants all the finer details, the ones he was hoping to skip over because Ian doesn’t understand them himself.

‘Yes, no, and it wasn’t jumping ship, it’s not a fucking war,’ Ian shrugs his shoulders, praying Lip doesn’t see anything else underneath Ian’s feigned nonchalance. Thankfully, Lip just scoffs before Ian’s toe digs harder into his stomach and he’s forced to retrieve Ian’s coffee-flavored prize. They spend the next few minutes silently watching the wrestling match on TV, lost in thought.

Except Ian’s lost in the _wrong_ thought; all about Mickey fucking Milkovich and his mermaid eyes and plump lips and hysterical eyebrows and knuckle tattoos and round, perfect ass-

‘You know anything about him?,’ he blurts out suddenly, glancing at Lip’s clear eyes fixated on the screen.

‘Nah, but apparently he won the last semi-final-‘

‘Not _him_ , dumbass. Mickey,’ Ian insists, rolling his eyes as Lip shoots him a quizzical look.

‘I’m only here for a couple of days a month, I don’t exactly keep track of what goes on with the thugs down the road.’

He thinks Lip’s left it at that, so he turns his attention back to the match on screen, taking another bite of his cake.

‘Use protection if you fuck him,’ he says after a minute and Ian’s spurting out his mouthful of food.

-

Things are slow at Patsy’s, aside from the occasional breakfast waffles Fiona sneaks in for him, and it’s not like Ian’s out in the main room enough to catch any gossip between waiters, not that he’d want to. Monica calls him, once, but he lets phone ring until she gives up trying to make things better with him. It kind of breaks his heart how he left her with some teenage meth-maker but she says she’s happy and in love – what is Ian supposed to say to that?

Things are slow. He feels like he’s walking into a fog, no idea when he’ll come to a stop. It’s hard to believe that everything that’s happened before – Kash and Jimmy/Steve’s dad and the army and swinging bats at Debbie and wandering aimlessly at the psych ward and military prison and running off to a life with Monica- actually happened.

For a second, Ian wonders what it would be like to have someone there for him through it all, especially the last half year of his life where everything was just spiraling downhill. What would it feel like to have someone rest their hand on his face, the look in their eyes enough to snap him out of his manic episode? Someone to walk into the hospital with him, clutching him so tightly to their chest as if the mere thought of letting go kills them? Someone to say ‘Can I go in with him?’ when Ian’s left under the flickering lights of the hospital alone.

Ian’s always been good at getting by, but it would’ve been a whole lot easier to get by with someone else next to him.

-

He doesn’t let Lip know how glad he is when he tells him to get his truck looked at while he’s off at university for some conference. It makes him feel like shit when people don’t trust him to do simple tasks, when Fiona would rather have Debbie fix the leaking tiles on the roof than Ian, or hand Liam over to V to drop off at daycare. What the hell does she think he’ll do – run off with Liam to Florida? It doesn’t make any fucking sense.

Sure, Ian’s bipolar. He has his highs and his lows. The fact that he is not Monica; that’s something his family can’t seem to understand.

Grabbing his bag and the note Lip handed him with the address scribbled in his tiny handwriting, Ian slides into the driver’s seat, praying that the truck doesn’t fall apart on the way. It takes him vague directions from 2 different people and a whole lot of squinting under the streetlights to finally pull up at what looks like a garage and Ian’s pretty sure he fucked up the directions again.

Too tired to come up with another solution, Ian just slips out of the truck, walking over to the front door of the place, about to pound his fist into the rusty metal when he spots a man lighting up a cigarette to his right.

‘Hey, uh- Is this a car repair shop? Lip told me you’ll get his truck looked at?’

The man skims his eyes over him once before grinning, gesturing at Ian to follow him inside. He opens up the door to a massive garage, filled with cars lined up next to one another like tombs. Ian briefly contemplates whether it’s all a scam and if he shouldn’t leave his brother’s car parked out front, but whatever. There’s not much else he can do.

‘So can you check it out?,’ Ian presses when the man doesn’t do anything else but look at Lip’s car in wonder.

‘Yep, but it’ll take a while. Two weeks at most, though,’ he pauses, scratching his beard before calling out behind him.

‘’Ay, Shorty!’

Ian just blinks when he hears an annoyed ‘Fuck you!’ followed by a clatter of metal and then suddenly Mickey materializes in front of him, scowling and dirty, and Ian can’t really think. Dark smudges are smeared all over his cheeks and the hands he has stuffed into his pockets, clad in a sleeveless shirt and plain jeans. It’s the most casual Ian has seen him dress and he can’t seem to stop staring as Mickey walks up to them, oblivious of Ian’s presence.

‘Call me that one more time and I’ll shove a fucking screwdriver up your ass,’ he mutters and Ian has to bite his cheek hard to keep himself from laughing.

‘Ah, and then you’ll be out of work and in jail,’ the man replies, grinning from ear to ear, before cocking his head towards Ian.

‘Check out Gallagher’s shit, will you?,’ and Mickey finally snaps his head up, frown still etched into his features, before dropping his jaw at the sight of Ian. Ian just grins sheepishly, trying to give off his best ‘Sorry we keep meeting like this’ look when in reality he couldn’t be more thrilled to see Mickey again. A wave of panic and fear at the thought of what that could mean washes over Ian, but he swallows it down and waves his fingers at Mickey before he can stop himself.

‘You gotta be fucking kidding me,’ Mickey exclaims, eyes trained on Ian’s in disbelief, before shaking his head and rubbing a hand over his mouth. It leaves another smudge of black grease and Ian’s hands are itching to reach out and rub it off.

It takes Mickey a moment to gather his thoughts before he rolls his eyes at Ian, making his way towards Lip’s truck and Ian takes in the sight of his ass, not even trying to look away. A phone rings in the background and he vaguely processes that the manager has gone off to talk in private, barking a couple of orders at Mickey, some of which he catches are ‘Back at 11, watch the cars.’

The night air is as cold as it is quiet and Ian can feel the familiar electricity seeping into the space between them as he shoves his hands in his hoodie and follows Mickey.

‘So, you like cars?,’ Ian asks the minute they’re alone and he wonders if he could’ve thought of anything lamer. Surprisingly, Mickey just grins, tapping his inked knuckles against the truck’s headlights and Ian knows the answer to his question already.

‘Yeah, man. They’re real pieces of work. It’s like a fucking adrenaline rush when you finally get one all fired up’ he says, no irritation or hostility in his voice for once and Ian smiles widely at his enthusiasm.

‘Yeah, I know what you mean. I hotwired a helicopter, ended up burning myself,’ Ian laughs and his breath catches in his throat when Mickey looks up at him, amusement and surprise in his eyes, before letting out his own bark of sudden laughter. It does something weird to Ian’s chest.

‘No fucking way!,’ Mickey exclaims, shaking his head, and Ian grins, holding up his hand to show him the angry red scar etched across his calloused palm. He can’t help the feeling of pride and happiness that surges through his chest; _he actually got Mickey to laugh._

‘So where’d you find helicopters, Gallagher?’

‘It’s Ian, and the army,’ Ian replies, shifting uncomfortably as he waits for the series of questions to fire at him that always lead to something he hates talking about. But Mickey just raises an eyebrow, the corner of his lips tilting up.

‘Army boy, eh? Fuck, is there something you _can’t_ do?,’ and Ian blinks at him, searching Mickey’s face for sarcasm or ridicule but all he finds is genuine amazement and it feels so fucking _good_ to be looked at like that, Mickey’s blue eyes wide and clear under the flickering lampposts. For the first time in so long, he feels like a person, not some fucked-up mental patient or a piece of meat living for the pleasure of others.

He feels like Ian.

Heart pounding in his chest, he watches Mickey move around the car to stand a couple of feet away from him, tapping his knuckles against the rear of the truck and Ian can feel the heat rush to his face as he ducks his head to smile. He opens his mouth to try to convey a part of what he’s feeling-

Sirens ring in the air around them, alarmingly close and he jolts back quickly, turning around to find that Mickey’s scurried off to the garage, shutting the door close and cursing a blue streak under his breath.

‘Get in the car!,’ Mickey shouts and Ian nods, fumbling in his pockets for his keys before hauling open the door to the back seat, scurrying inside and tucking in underneath  seats when he feels Mickey slip in after him, slamming the door shut. There’s a buzzing in his ear and his heart thumps loudly, too loudly.

The rush he feels is second nature to him- thrumming adrenaline in his veins convincing him that he’s invincible- and he’s reminded of the high he felt right before he nearly bashed Debbie’s skull in with a baseball bat.

Head swimming, Ian thinks in short phrases, hands trembling and heart hammering at the thought of Mickey finding out what a fucking freak show he is. Fiona was right, she always was – he should’ve taken his pills that morning, just in case, but he had been feeling so good lately. The reason for that happiness is crouching mere centimeters away, completely oblivious to Ian’s world shattering around him.

Before nausea and panic can kick in, Mickey’s fresh scent from underneath layers of car grease and cigarette and sweat drift through Ian’s senses when he unconsciously shifts closer to Ian, and the scent takes him far, far away. He wants to bury his face in Mickey’s hair and breathe him in forever when a police car drives right beside them, snapping Ian out of his momentary faze.

‘Mick-‘

He feels Mickey’s hand clamp over his mouth as he tries to swallow down the surge of panic once again taking over his body. Of fucking _course_ they were doing something illegal, probably selling off the cars or some whacked up shit like that. Why would Lip bother to contribute to something _legal_ for once, Mickey too for that matter?

A door slams loudly beside them and he hears deep voices nearby and a shuffle of boots as the policemn check out the garage, Ian guesses.

What scares Ian to the core is the fear of losing Mickey rattling in his bones. His brain jumps to conclusions, ringing with the thought that Mickey will be in jail and Ian will be alone again, just like-

Mickey’s hand clenches into Ian’s hoodie sleeve and he realizes he must be trembling.

They sit in silence, Ian not daring to do move a muscle, until they hear the police sirens fade away and suddenly Mickey’s jumping out of the truck, grinning from ear to ear.

‘Fuck you, fuck you and especially fuck you!,’ he shouts at the top of his lungs and _what the fuck,_ the police cars are still in sight and-

‘Mickey, what the _fuck!?_ Are you out of your fucking mind!?’

Mickey just grins at him, eyes shining under the lights.

Then, like finally exhaling a breath being held for too long, Ian feels the panic seep out of his body and into the night air until he’s weightless again.

 The fucker is still grinning from ear to ear, a challenge in his raised eyebrow and _nope, that’s not going to work on him again._ He aims a kick at Mickey but he’s already leaping out of the way, laughing hysterically. _He’s not going to get away,_ Ian thinks as he chases him down the block with still-trembling legs, kicking him every chance he gets but pretty soon, Ian’s laughing along too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to be clear, Ian is very close to having a manic episode in the car.
> 
> Thank you guys so much for reading so far, your comments make my day! :)


	4. what goes around don't come around

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘What about you? Heard a lot of things about the Milkoviches,’ Ian smirks, knocking his elbow into Mickey’s as he tries to swallow the dryness in his mouth.  
> Yeah, like they’re currently huddled around the kitchen table planning on how deep to dig your dad’s grave. And guess what? That Mickey punk who you think is such a good person for saving your life and shit? Yeah, he’s in charge of the whole thing.

Mickey should be more careful. Waltzing into his house in the middle of the night with a lazy smile on his face after chasing and tackling Gallagher for God knows how long isn’t exactly subtle, not according to a room full of glaring Milkoviches shooting him down with their eyes. Even Tony looks on the verge of menacing.

‘The fuck is this, some kinda’ cult?,’ Mickey barks defensively, smile dropping off his face as he walks around to pull a beer out of the fridge.

‘If you had picked your fucking phone up when we called, you would know,’ Mandy bites out before returning to her huddled siblings, back turned to Mickey. Bottle an inch away from his lips, Mickey frowns. He caught the flash of panic in her eyes before she could conceal it with layers of irritation or hostility.

Just like any other Milkovich, Mandy is stubborn and tactical; something she hides under her pale, almost translucent skin and scrawny form. She’s like a rag doll, except when you think she’s going to slump to the ground after you cut off her strings, she strikes back fighting like a transformers action figure. There’s steel in her eyes that keeps Mickey’s world on its axis, this blazing determination and collectiveness that he can’t help but be astonished by.

Mickey’s jaw tightens at the thought of what could possibly have happened when he was off doing- he doesn’t even know what he was doing with Gallagher.

The door creaks open and Svetlana, bathrobe on and a cup of steaming tea in hand, walks into the room, nodding at Mickey in acknowledgment before perching on one end of the sofa. A headache throbs behind his eyes- he’s tired of whatever his knuckle-headed siblings think they’re doing.

‘What the fuck?,’ he asks in exasperation, turning to Svetlana, and she lets out a short, humorless laugh.

‘Alcoholic son-of-bitch steals car,’ she says matter-of-factly.

‘Not any fucking car, Svet! It’s the red,’ Tony exclaims and Iggy thumps him hard, reprimanding him for letting Mickey in on whatever they were planning on. It doesn’t matter, anyway. Mickey knows exactly why Mandy’s lips are pulled into a thin line; Iggy’s light eyes are pained instead of lighting with joy at the thought of giving someone a good beating for stealing something of theirs.

People leave behind hidden notebooks with thoughts and feelings or music boxes with fucking dancing porcelain ballerinas – not their mom. But then again, most mothers don’t die at the hands of their husbands, either, so who can blame the Milkovich family for unconventionality? He’s glad she didn’t leave behind some sappy shit like that, anyway, even though he knows it would mean more to Mandy than the rickety red car with the fading paint and dented doors, if that was even possible. She treasured the car more than anything in the world, and even though they didn’t say it out loud or wash it every couple of days like she did, Mickey’s brothers cherished the scrap of metal, too.

He’s still surprised Terry didn’t throw it out like the rest of her stuff – Mickey had come back from the short funeral to all her clothes and make up tossed on the porch, which later burned in a bonfire – but it was because the car was useful. ‘Something good did come out of that whore, eh?’ were Terry’s spiteful words when he regarded his wife’s car, a prize she won at a carnival, and Mickey remembered digging his nails into his palms hard enough to draw blood to keep himself from punching him in the jaw. He would have, if it weren’t for a tiny Mandy grasping onto his arm like her life depended on it, and a 10-year-old didn’t need to see both her mother and father die on the same day.

Mickey remembered poking his head out of the window the first time their mom took them out for a spin in the rusty Toyota, just around the block in case Terry woke up, watching her push back her black hair against the wind with a smile just like Mandy’s.

Most of the time, the tiny car would be parked in their garage and they’d come to convince Terry that it was broken and needed fixing soon. Then, when he was gone for more than a night or two, they’d take it out on a run; silently piling into the car that never stopped smelling of lavender laundry detergent with hidden smiles and holding on to what little piece of their mother they had left.

With a tightening in his stomach, Mickey realizes he’s not ready to let her go.

‘What the fuck are you waiting for, then? Let’s hunt down the fucker,’ Mickey snaps, walking up to his siblings. He can feel Mandy perk up at the determination in his voice, so Mickey nods reassuringly at her before nudging Iggy.

‘Can’t be Terry, right? Fucker wouldn’t risk more time just for a car,’ Mickey mutters, already thinking of ways to kill the fucker when they found them. Iggy shakes his head next to him.

‘Nah, it wasn’t. Svet saw the guy leaving, though. Says he’s a regular at the Alibi.’

‘What was it? Frenard, Fredrick?,’ Tony wonders out loud, and Mickey’s about to snap at them for not following the damn car.

‘Frank Gallagher,’ Svetlana cuts in, rolling her eyes as Iggy nods his head vigorously, and Mickey freezes.

_-_

The protocol is simple: find him, follow the order inked into his knuckles and take back what was theirs. Mickey is versed in it and he’s had far worse than a lazy alcoholic on his hands. It should be easy.

Except for the fact that he’s Ian’s _father._

And what’s the protocol for the situation, now? Is he supposed to carry on with the plan, pretend like he’s not about to kill the father of his… whatever the fuck Ian is supposed to be to him? Is he supposed to let him know, just a friendly ‘yo, about to kill your dad. Any idea where he is?’

For once, Mickey doesn’t know.

He tells everyone he’s going to check up on the Gallagher house, see if the car is parked nearby, just to calm Mandy’s nerves if nothing else. Iggy and Tony offer to come along but he just slams the door hard on his way out, hoping they get the message. All the while, he still has no idea what he’s supposed to do.

The morning air is crisp and clear, sharp enough to cut out all his muddled thoughts as he trudges along the path to the Gallagher household. It’s a refreshing break from being caged in his own house; Mandy’s chain smoking has gotten out of hand in the last couple of ours. He slows his pace, clearing out his thoughts until he comes up with a plausible solution: keep Ian out of it. The redhead doesn’t need to know his plans on killing his father and even if he finds out that Mickey has something to do with it, he can always lie and say he had no idea who Frank was related to.

Just the thought of lying to Ian leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

That’s when Mickey gets angry- why should he care what happens to Ian? Why should he care if he lies to him, it’s not like they’re fucking boyfriend and girlfriend. They’re hardly even friends. Why should he think for even a second that Ian is more important than Mandy and Iggy and Tony and his fucking _mother?_

It’s just a temporary fascination- Ian’s bright and loud and luminous and when all Mickey’s known are dull blues and gun-metal greys, the vibrant contrast of orange that surrounds Ian is a breath of fresh air, and really, all Mickey’s doing is counting down the days until that air runs out.

He stops in front of the house, eyes flickering over the place, and wonders for a brief second what Ian is doing in there. Taking a shower, eating breakfast with his family. Wonders if he knows what’s going on with the house down the block.

Tattooed knuckles are knocking on the front door in a matter of seconds, curiosity and envy and anger and the desire to see Ian again taking over Mickey’s senses. The front door swings open before he can walk away.

She’s got a child perched on her hip but she’s practically a child herself and Mickey just blinks. The girl cocks her head of red hair, darker than Ian’s but not any less bright, to the side, and the one simple gesture reminds him so much of Ian and _he’s actually at his door, in front of his sister._

How pathetic would it be if he turned around right now?

‘LIP!,’ she shouts at the top of her lungs and Mickey itches to take a tentative step back because this girl is fucking scary.

‘Jesus Christ, Debs! He’s not-‘

Ian’s hair is damp from a shower, towel wrapped around his neck and he’s only got on a pair of striped boxers when he pauses half way across the kitchen. Mickey can’t take his eyes away from Ian’s as they widen in surprise before a blinding smile lights up his face.

‘Hey, Mickey,’ he says in pleasant surprise, and _fuck, this is not what he was supposed to do today._

Then, as if just realizing his state, Ian blushes, scratching a hand through his hair, muscles tightening from the action, and Mickey’s still deciding if it’s worse to look away – that would make it obvious how uncomfortable he was – or to keep on staring at Ian’s ripped, smooth body.

‘I-Uh. I’ll just grab a hoodie and be out,’ Ian says hurriedly, as if he’s scared Mickey will change his mind, and really, Mickey would if it wasn’t too late. He just grunts as Ian bounds away up stairs, fixated on the movement of his back muscles as he jogs up the steps.

‘You coming in?,’ Ian’s sister asks, picking up a slice of buttered toast from the plate on the table before letting down the boy she was carrying, regarding Mickey with guarded interest. Not suspicion, though, which is stupid on her part because what part of a tattooed Milkovich banging on your backdoor in the morning is any good?

‘Y’know he’s probably freaking out over what to wear upstairs,’ she adds through a mouthful of toast when Mickey makes no move to step into the kitchen. He’s just wondering what the hell he’s supposed to do with that piece of information when Ian practically runs down the stairs, striped hoodie and jeans thrown on clumsily. He beams at Mickey again, like he can’t really believe he’s here and Mickey just turns to walk out of the house before things get any crazier, leaving the door open for Ian to follow.

He falls in step with Mickey easily, even with his long legs, and lets the silence stretch over them as they walk down the street, his body heat sending shivers up Mickey’s arms. He has a feeling Ian’s waiting for him to break the silence, but what the fuck is he supposed to say? This is s _tupidstupidstupid, Mickey’s so fucking stupid._

‘That your sister?,’ Mickey blurts out, glancing at Ian quickly before returning his gaze to the street in front of him. ‘She got a kid, or…?’

‘No, that’s Liam. He’s my youngest brother,’ Ian laughs, and Mickey can feel his heart speed up at the familiar sound. Ian takes Mickey’s silence for encouragement, apparently, because then he’s launching into the details of his family, voice still hoarse from sleep.

‘There’s Fiona, Lip who’s in college, me, Debbie, Carl who’s in Juvie and little Liam.’

‘Fuck, 6 kids? Where’s your dad?,’ Mickey asks, because he might as well get some information about Frank.

‘Probably sleeping under a bench somewhere,’ Ian replies casually, shifting closer to Mickey. ‘Choking on his vomit, if we’re lucky.’

Mickey glances up, then, to see if there’s something he can catch on Ian’s face; hurt, regret, sorrow. All he sees is a calculated nonchalance, like it’s been programmed in his system to not care, and Mickey is strangely surprised. Maybe he wouldn’t care if Mickey disposed of Frank, maybe he’d be doing them all a favor-

‘What about you? Heard a lot of things about the Milkoviches,’ Ian smirks, knocking his elbow into Mickey’s as he tries to swallow the dryness in his mouth. _Yeah, like they’re currently huddled around the kitchen table planning on how deep to dig your dad’s grave. And guess what? That Mickey punk who you think is such a good person for saving your life and shit? Yeah, he’s in charge of the whole thing._

‘Not much to tell.’

‘Everyone’s got a story to tell, Mickey,’ Ian says softly, and _is that pity he hears in his voice?_

‘Yeah, well not me,’ Mickey snaps, speeding up and Ian fumbles a bit before catching up to him. He wants to break out in a run, escape the scene before he says something stupid or hurts Ian or goes crazy. What the hell is he supposed to do? He can’t remember the last time he felt so helpless and it doesn’t sit well with him. Anger floods back into his veins, his survival instinct, and Mickey feels like he’s trapped in a room where the walls are closing in on him. He barely registers Ian jogging up next to him.

‘You okay? You don’t look so good,’ Ian presses again, eyes trained on Mickey’s face. Mickey feels hot all over.

‘Because you got me all fucking figured out in a couple of days, huh?’

‘ _No,_ because you look like you’re going to fucking pass out,’ Ian stops walking; steps in front of Mickey to face him and his green eyes are stubborn, angry. Mickey tries to ignore how they flash with hurt before shifting into apprehension. Before he can stop him, Ian’s pressing a cool, calloused palm against Mickey’s forehead, the touch sending sparks of electricity through him, and he stays very still, trying not to lean into the touch.

‘Shit, Mickey. You’re burning up,’ he mumbles, voice laced with concern. Mickey gives himself a second to relish the touch before he’s pulling back and away.

‘V next door is a trained nurse, she can have-‘

‘Just stay out of it, okay?,’ Mickey cuts in, rubbing a weary hand over his face and taking another step back. Distance, Mickey has come to realize, is a good thing.

‘It would be easier to stay out of it if I knew what ‘it’ was,’ Ian mumbles as Mickey leaves him standing in the cold driveway alone, green hoodie still inside-out.

-

He ends up checking around the Gallagher house for the car after grabbing his gun and taking a couple of shots under the L. It does nothing to nurse his headache but at least his hands don’t feel as numb anymore.

As expected, Ian isn’t out in the cold when Mickey sneaks back, but he’s sure to keep his guard up just in case. Slipping around the house, Mickey checks every possible place a car could be parked in the limited premises and he convinces himself that the relief he feels when he doesn’t find it is purely for the sake of the Gallagher kids.

He winds up at the Alibi, half hoping Frank would just show up so he could cut to the chase. It’s all too messed up and twisted and knotted together for Mickey to enjoy hunting someone down like he usually does, so he just plops down on a seat and chugs down 3 shots.

‘Hey, Mickey! Svetlana’s upstairs, I’ll call her down in a bit! She’s so good with the babies, though, like a Russian-shark-nursing-mama or something!’

Mickey doesn’t even try to decipher what the fuck that means so he lets Kevin ramble on and by the time Svetlana steps into the room with Yevgeny cradled around her hip, the crazy bartender is talking about how cucumbers are good for diarrhea.

Shit, it’s been a long day.

Svetlana doesn’t say anything; just soundlessly takes a seat next to Mickey and rocks Yevgeny on her knee. He follows the motion with his eyes, up down, up down, and there’s something about the scent of baby milk and cotton that alleviates Mickey’s nerves. It’s strange, to say the least. He remembers the times when he wouldn’t have let Svetlana sit down next to him like this, or stand anywhere near him if she wasn’t engaged in something useful. He’d like to think that it was him changing into a better man but it was really just Svetlana narrowing her steel gaze and looking straight through his act, past the hardened exterior of his no-bullshit attitude and into the man he really was, and deciding to stand by him anyway, silently supporting him until she became a crutch Mickey didn’t realize he leaned on.

Not that he’d ever tell her that.

‘No Frank?’ she finally asks, eyes still trained on Yevgeny and Mickey just grunts in reply, placing his drink on the counter.

‘But another Gallagher, eh?’

There’s amusement in her voice, a playfulness she hides well with her brisk tone, and when Mickey finally catches onto what Svetlana’s saying, it’s too late.

‘There’s no problem. I see how you look at him before you push away,’ she glances at him again, her lips tilting up. ‘You’re idiot, if you push away when there’s no problem. Then you’ll be left with no one, like before.’

‘Yep, okay, didn’t know when you became my fucking shrink but you’re doing a terrible job,’ Mickey finally mutters, rubbing his eyes. He’s strangely disappointed when he blinks his eyes open to see Svetlana still sitting there, staring at him inquisitively. Sighing, Mickey stands up, limbs heavy and head still spinning, before grabbing his coat and turning to leave.

‘Carrot boy not bad, you know. His father, maybe. Like you,’ she says and Mickey groans, turning around to shoot her an exasperated look as she feeds Yevgeny a spoonful of orange mush. He’s picked up on Svetlana’s ambiguous comparisons and aberrant phrasings enough to translate what she really means: say goodbye to Yevgeny. So he does, because he’s really tired and Svet’s not going to shut up anytime soon, and also because he doesn’t completely dislike the way Yevgeny giggles toothlessly when Mickey blows a raspberry on the kid’s soft cheek.

‘You chase Frank tomorrow? Mandy is throwing tantrum worse than Yev-‘

‘Night, Svetlana,’ Mickey calls out over his back with a roll of his eyes and the smallest of smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. I know the whole Frank situation seems a bit disjointed but it leads to an important string of events  
> 2\. Next chapter will be a lot more faster (and more interesting, if you didn't really like this one!) 
> 
> Once again, thank you for all your lovely comments! I'm trying really hard to finish the next chapter right now, but it's just not coming out right :( Lots of angry Ian and protective Svetlana ahead!


	5. how can you save me when i'm angry for reasons i'll never know?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fiona’s voice rings in his head, Lip warning him to back down, Carl mumbling that jail isn’t really that fun, but there’s no way in hell that Ian is letting this go.

From what Ian’s seen on his rounds around the diner picking up dirty dishes, she’s been sat at Patsy’s for most of the morning, face buried in a glossy yoga book. It’s around 11 am when he turns around to catch her staring straight at him, grey eyes narrowed, and there’s something familiar about her silky oak-colored hair and sharp features that Ian can’t quite put his finger on. One of Lip’s exes? Fiona’s “buddies” from that time she worked as a cashier? All Ian knows for sure is that she doesn’t seem to like him very much.

It’s not that it doesn’t get under Ian’s skin, all that silent glaring, but he can’t find enough space in his thoughts to care. He has to take a deep breath and put on a jaw-achingly fake smile before stepping into the main café to avoid Fiona’s questioning looks- passing on his burdens to his family is not something he likes to resort to, though he knows they’ll try and help in any way that they could.

Except they can’t help this time, not without accompanying advice and condolences with judgement, that is. He can already see Lip wrinkling his nose in displeasure after hearing what Ian has to say about how the violent pimp down the street is acting strange around him, or Fiona diverting the conversation back to whether or not he’s been taking his pills-which he hasn’t.

Debbie might understand- she’s always up for anything related to relationships and gossip and unlike the others, she’s actually seen Mickey act like a civilized human being. But then Debbie also understands boys pretty well and the whole thing will just blow up in Ian’s face; he’ll get told by his little sister how Mickey just doesn’t like him and how he should stop trying to make people stay. Those words don’t need to be said aloud, they’re all he hears in his head.

 ‘She bugging you?,’ Fiona asks, defensiveness evident in her voice, balancing a pitcher of coffee on one hip, hand on the other, as she nods to the lady’s table. Ian shakes his head. It doesn’t seem like the occasion for his ‘I don’t swing that way, sorry’ talk. Before Fiona starts rolling up her sleeves and potentially endangering her customers and her job, Ian shoots her a reassuring smile, takes a deep breath and walks up to his silent stalker. It’s now or never.

 ‘Is there a problem?,’ he asks cautiously, flitting a quick look over his back to make sure Sean doesn’t catch him, not sure where to go with it. He’s never had a girl both glaring at him and following him around with her eyes before. He’s never had a girl do anything, full stop. Other than try and hit on him, that is. Maybe he should’ve asked Lip what to do before confronting her.

‘Coffee too cold, cake is mushy,’ she shoots immediately in a thick accent Ian picks up as Russian before flickering her gaze up at him in a way that leaves him vulnerable and scrutinized. His hands itch for a cigarette.

‘Also, you fuck with my family,’ she adds after taking a sip from her cup, and the glare Ian’s expecting when she meets his eyes again is replaced with a smirk. The tilt of her lips is familiar and--

Ian wants to kick himself.

It’s not a surprise that Ian hasn’t matched her face with the one sitting across from Mickey at the exact same table a couple of weeks ago, minus the giggling baby, because Ian has grown used to the frame and focus delusion his mind decides to play on him every time Mickey is around. It’s like he just zones in on those clear eyes and everything else blurs out of focus, including the lady now smiling up at his silence.  And damn, he thought Carl’s smile was scary.

But wait- _her family? Is she talking about Mickey?_

First of all, the last thing he wants to do is go anywhere near fucking with the Milkoviches; he’s had his share of bruised ribs and brutal kicking to last a lifetime.

And secondly, just the thought of doing anything to hurt Mickey in any way has his stomach tightening and heart beating wildly. He suddenly feels sick.

The lady is still looking at him, contemplating, and her calculated expression is not threating or angry, just amused, and he’s glad she gestures for him to sit down.

‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ Ian breathes out quickly, finally swallowing the lump in his throat before gripping the edge of the table. ‘But is Mickey okay? What the hell is going on? Is he in trouble? Is it the car mechanic thing? Fuck, I shouldn’t have let him carry on with that-‘

‘You let me speak?,’ she cuts in and Ian feels foolish for babbling, but what if he had led a trail back to the garage that night and busted Mickey, _shit,_ was that what Mickey had come to see him about that morning? Still, he reins in the waves of panic and forces his mouth shut.

‘Now, listen closely, carrot boy. You make Mickey happy now, I see that, but don’t be foolish to think it was like that before.’

All hints of amusement in her voice dissipate, replaced by an edge that reminds Ian of Fiona when she battled for custody over them in court, and crazy Sheila Jackson fighting for her grandson.  

‘Mickey is hard man to understand. I see how long it take for him to find happiness, more than you know. And after so long I see that light in his face, with his family, and now it is fucked up. Tell me now if you don’t care for him, if you want Mickey to rot in jail cell for his life because of your stupid fucking family, and next time I see you, I bash your orange head.’

_My family? What the fuck?_

‘Of course I care for him,’ Ian says clearly, making sure the lady understands every single word and more importantly the feelings behind them. ‘But fuck, you need to tell me what the fuck is going on here,’ he adds desperately.

‘You maybe don’t understand love from mother, but he does. Your father steal dead mother’s car and Mickey will kill him.’

And it all falls into place; _Frank fucking Gallagher_. What more can be said? It’s almost comical how easily Ian’s worry for Mickey morphs into blinding anger.

‘Talk to him, if you want father alive and Mickey happy.’

‘Trust me, I plan to do more than just talk,’ is all Ian says before he throws off his apron and slams open the front door.

-

At least Ian has the decency to tap out a short text to Fiona, which is seriously a great feat considering how he’s more than ready to slaughter anyone who gets in between him and his mission to drag out his father’s pathetic, wasted ass and kick it real hard before the Milkoviches ever get a chance to. Whatever they have in store for Frank is child’s play compared to the thoughts bleeding into Ian’s head.

He’s vaguely aware of how hard he’s breathing, and if he were to look into a mirror right now, he knows what he would see; flaring nostrils, deranged, beaded eyes and lips pulled into a thin line.

_Crazy, you’re fucking crazy, Ian._

-

The game plan is simple as long as Ian avoids Fiona and Debbie.

He knows how it’ll look to them, they’ll make him take his pills and what the fuck’s the purpose of doing this if he can’t fucking _feel anything_ \- the scalding anger licking at his ribcage, the itching beneath his skin, the red behind his eyelids.

So he takes in a steadying breath, clenches his fists and walks into the house to Debbie and Derek whispering about God knows what in each other’s ears, cocooned around the sofa. He watches them for a second; the way Debbie’s voice tinkles with laughter, the sincerity in Derek’s eyes. Ian clenches his fists and tries not to think of Mickey.

‘I made cheese sandwiches, Ian!,’ he hears Debbie call out but he’s already on the second floor, trudging towards his room. Cheese sandwiches; he wonders if Debbie does things for him out of obligation or genuine concern of whether or not he’s eaten anything all day, which he hasn’t. Ian doesn’t think he can stomach anything at the moment.

There’s a lump in the bunk opposite him and for a split second, Ian can see Carl’s hair sticking up from underneath the grey sheets but he blinks and it’s gone. It’s times like this where Ian really misses his little brother’s presence, the only one in the family who actually understands Ian on some psychotic level, and he knows without a doubt that the kid would’ve helped him track Frank down if it meant Ian throwing around some cool moves. And he’d be good at it, too; all the illegal drug-dealing has Carl memorizing streets of Chicago like the back of his hand and he’d know the right people to see to track down their father’s whereabouts.

Instead, Ian settles for Jake.

-

The December air is sharp as it settles around them, even for Ian, but there’s no going back to get jackets and gloves now. They’ve been wandering around the dark roads for at least an hour because Frank couldn’t possibly make things easy for them. Unless he has some much needed cash stored somewhere that could be put to better use than booze and more booze, Frank is always better off dead.

Ian is mildly impressed; Frank did good getting away from his family this time, if the clean, well-lit streets of Northside Chicago are anything to go by. Jake is unusually silent when Ian follows the directions of a stoned man he’s seen around the Alibi before and the fact that they’ve both had their shares of prim and proper geriatric billionaires guiding them through their equally as pretentious apartments on these same streets is unspoken but heard.

A couple all wrapped up in winter wear give his green tank top and thin hoodie a glance before offering a pitying smile as they walk past, the blonde woman pressing her thin lips into a line like she’s trying to refrain herself from tossing a couple of dollar bills at Ian and Jake like they’re some charity case. It’s like they carry South Side air with them wherever they go, or maybe it’s the smell of beer and cigarettes and barely getting by that’s buried into their skin.

‘This the place?,’ Jake asks as they stop in front of a clean, sophisticated-looking bar, and after Ian flickers his gaze up at the wooden sign reading ‘Robbie’s’ in intricate lettering, he nods.

‘Doesn’t look like Frank’s usual place, but maybe that’s the point,’ Ian murmurs before stuffing his hands in his hoodie pockets. They stand in silence for a minute, contemplating just what the fuck they’re supposed to be doing now.

‘Alright, man. Let’s go,’ Jake grins, rubbing his palms together before making a move towards the entrance of the bar, only to be yanked back by Ian.

‘Fuck no, you’re staying here,’ and because any argument Ian could put up about not wanting Jake to get hurt would backfire, he decides to settle for something reasonable that his friend couldn’t argue with. ‘Stay here and keep an eye out, okay?,’ Ian presses, reaching out to squeeze Jake’s shoulder as the other man opens his mouth to say something before shutting it close and nodding hurriedly.

‘If you’re not back in 20, I’m dragging your ass back out.’

’30,’ Ian corrects, turning towards the door before Jake’s furrowed brows and anxious eyes can tighten the growing knot in his stomach.

-

The place is dim, moving figures illuminated with yellows and reds, and Ian’s fingers tingle as he makes his way from underneath the lights. It’s almost like he slips into a different medium; the way his limbs are suddenly heavy, how it takes so much effort to pick up his feet and take a step, endlessly wading through the river of lucid bodies, the air smothering.

That’s the first sign that Ian both picks up on and ignores.

Someone’s talking to him as he approaches the seats but the music is too loud and the words too mechanical. Ian nods anyway and feels his eyelids droop as he barely registers a drink being placed in front of him. The clear liquid thrums with vibrations from the music and Ian regards it silently, trying to wrap his head around what he’s supposed to do. _Drink, take the drink._ Stumbling over his feet, Ian tries to mount the stool but his legs are suddenly weak.

‘Careful,’ and he feels steady hands gripping his sides and all Ian can concentrate on is not throwing up as he turns to thank the man next to him. It’s too dark and Ian’s over grown bangs are falling into his line of sight but he makes out a tall and lean man with black framed glasses and sharp features, someone the old Ian wouldn’t mind leading into a musk-scented hotel room for a night or two. Thinking about it now makes bile rise up his throat.

Ian’s just about to mumble out a thank you when his eyes zero in on a figure in the background, the man’s dirty white shirt and ripped jeans sticking out in the sea of black suits like a sore thumb, and Ian’s head snaps into focus.

Frank Gallagher.

The clatter behind Ian as he stands to his feet is probably his stool being knocked to the ground but he surges forward to the man wordlessly, heart rattling in his ribcage and vision clearing with every step. Frank’s laughing, babbling some shit that doesn’t justify the waste of air that he is and Ian is _so fucking tired of this,_ of this man ruining his life again and again and being the single handed reason of every single one of Ian’s problems.

There it is- that thrumming in his veins that makes Ian feel alive.

A fist is clenched in his thin shirt before Ian knows what he’s doing and Frank looks up at him in alarm. Ian wants to laugh because how fucking easy would it be to just end his life right then and there? A punch to his jaw, a hand to his neck, right above his collar bone, maybe a take-down…

‘W-Let go of me!’

Ian does laugh, then. Pathetic.

His blood rushes.

Fiona’s voice rings in his head, Lip warning him to back down, Carl mumbling that jail isn’t really that fun, but there’s no way in hell that Ian is letting go of this.

‘Where’s the car, Frank?,’ he starts instead, voice raw and ripped with feigned nonchalance when all Ian wants to do is lash out and _fightfightfight--_

‘Oh, is that what this is, my mentally unbalanced son trying to redeem his worth to society by reducing crime rates-‘

‘Where the fuck is the car, Frank!?,’ Ian bellows, tightening his grip on Frank’s shirt. People are starting to gather around, someone batting at Ian’s shoulder but he elbows them away sharply, not once taking his eyes off of Frank’s. He’s scared, who wouldn’t be when their 6-foot, muscular son has them held a couple centimeters off the ground, but Ian can see the incredulity in his eyes, like he doesn’t think he has the guts to punch him.

And it’s too late, really, it’s too late when Frank is sprawling onto the floor and Ian’s knuckles sting and his blood pumps with vindication and the next second he’s pouncing on top of Frank, pummeling his fists into the man’s body. It’s not hard enough to kill and they’ve both had worse but fuck, does it feel good.

‘Don’t you take something of mine again, you piece of fucking shit,’ Ian is shouting, voice hoarse and words stringing together incoherently and there are hands grabbing at him again, harder, more urgent, and Frank sends a hard kick to his chest but he keeps on going, rattling off words and growls and he loses track of time.

It’s like his ribs are closing in on his lungs, tightening, constricting. It hurts.

It’s not just Frank that Ian’s anger is directed towards, it’s mostly fate or God or whatever, but it’s easier to kick the shit out of his pathetic father, not that he doesn’t deserve it. Ian’s blood boils as he chokes out a bitter laugh; what the fuck were the chances of Frank stealing _Mickey’s_ fucking car? And just when things were finally getting better for him, when he woke up with a smile on his face instead of not waking up at all, when he didn’t feel like a walking corpse anymore, some cosmic force just spits in his face and calls him stupid for believing he could ever have a shot at happiness.

Ian lands another punch.

There’s something in Ian’s skin that sends shivers up his spine when he’s being hauled up and off of Frank’s body, and he’s screaming again, shaking and lashing out with his limbs until he feels a cool hand wrap around his wrist and another one cupping his jaw firmly.

‘Hey. Hey! Snap the fuck out of it, Ian! _Calm down_.’

Ian blinks.                                                                                                                                 

Blue eyes.

And just like that, all the fight dissipates and he collapses, boneless, onto Mickey’s smaller frame and as the man wraps firm arms around his limp body, Ian breathes in his scent and closes his eyes.

He’s never been so fucking tired.

He’s sick of constantly trying to keep his head above the water, trying to get by another day when all he wants is to swim to the bottom and stay there. He’s tired of feeling useless and fucking crazy and the one person who doesn’t see him as something he’s not is being taken away from him, too. He’s tired of fighting for what he needs when everyone else gets it handed to them; normality, love, family, _sanity._

He just wants Mickey, dammit. Is that too much to ask?

‘Fucking hell, Ian,’ Mickey is muttering into his shoulder but the words are distant, like they’re under water. Ian wants to sleep.

‘’M so tired, Mick.’

‘Yeah, I know,’ is the last thing he hears before it fades to black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHHHH, I'm so excited for the next chapter! I hope you are too! :))  
> Comments and kudos are very much appreciated!<3333


	6. hold on; i'll be here when it's all done

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s stupid and completely irrational but Mickey doesn’t want to let Ian go, doesn’t want to break this fragile reality where Ian is allowed to curl into Mickey’s side like he doesn’t hate the smell of sweat and blood and engine oil and Mickey is allowed to let his hands fall inches away from his wild red hair, deluding himself into thinking that the next morning, Ian won’t pretend like the night never happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the lack of updates, I was super busy with school :( This chapter is twice the normal length so I hope that makes up for it! :DD

It’s cold outside, has been for the last seven minutes, and Mickey’s sure his fingers have frozen over with his cigarette caught in between them but he can’t force himself to care. He breathes out a sigh, watches the air freeze over as a hovering ice cloud in front of him and wonders just what the hell he’s gotten himself into.

Ian’s weight pressed into his side is the only thing that’s remotely warm, draping over him like a blanket, heavy and pleasant, and Mickey unconsciously zones in on the younger man’s soft breathing. And because Mickey is tired of putting up facades and Ian can’t see shit with his eyelids fluttered close, he studies him out of the corner of his eye; the curve of his shoulder, the red of his hair against the dark night, the faded freckles on the bridge of his nose. It’s all Mickey does, just watches the rise and fall of his breathing tiredly, and takes a drag of his cigarette, trying to will his brain to spit out a valid reason why he’s willing to do anything for this guy. The longer he stares, the harder it is to deny that _nope, it’s just Ian,_ Ian and his clumsy smile and un-cut bangs and wide, puppy eyes and bright laugh that has Mickey running around in circles.

It’s that image that helps him exhale just a little easier, not the one of red eyes and spastic limbs; that image of Ian grinning wide and chasing Mickey down barely-lit alleys, smile lighting up his green, green eyes when he finds Mickey waiting for him at his back door.

Still, as he waits for the cab with his back against a brick wall a fair distance away from the club they just escaped, it doesn’t stop his fingers from trembling. Just the thought of the commotion Mickey had witnessed a couple of minutes ago has his heart thumping and stomach clenching in a way that isn’t Milkovich-like at all, so he just stares straight ahead and thinks of nothing. It’s quiet and his ears ring in the reminiscence of Ian’s shouts and screams and he thinks he’s about to go fucking deaf from the silence when a cab finally screeches into the street across from them.

Mickey counts _one, two, three_ before tossing the cigarette into the snow, tightening his grip on Ian’s lower back and carrying him to the waiting car.

He lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

-

Lights flash outside his window, flickering and glowing and Mickey loses himself in Chicago’s skyline. It’s ironic how much the scene reminds him of car rides with his mother, memories of being shuffled into the backseat and allowing himself to co-exist with the world instead of constantly fighting against it. Over-cast clouds hover over the moon, it’s light barely visible against something much darker, and he must’ve drank more than he thought because the sight reminds him of Ian, in some fucked up, metaphorical way.

Mickey tries it all, thinking of Mandy, a movie he watched last week, even Terry, but it’s inevitable. His train of thought leads right back into that fucking room and Gallagher and Frank and-

_Breathe, Mickey._

Anger he can deal with. It’s second nature for him to feel angry and fucking irritated that Gallagher brought it upon himself to take action for something that had fuck all to do with him, like he needed to defend Mickey or some other delusional, romantic bull shit. Mickey doesn’t need a savior, he doesn’t need a knight in fucking armor and he definitely doesn’t need some twink fighting his battles.

There’s also an infuriation directed towards himself that has never really gone away; Ian was in trouble because of him. Just recalling the defeated look in those once bright green eyes sends shivers of self loathe running up and down Mickey’s spine and it’s like how useless he felt against Kenyatta and Mandy and fuck, even his _mother_ , all over again.

But no matter how hard he tries to deny it, some small, untouched part of him is fucking terrified because no one has ever stood up for Mickey before. No one has ever punched someone for stealing something of his, and Mickey knows that it’s more than that, that Ian was enraged because Frank took something Mickey cared about. It’s those thoughts that make his head spin in a way that can’t be treated with Advil.

And then there’s Ian, the man who had him paralyzed to the spot when Mickey stepped into the club to find him distressed and lashing out like a caged animal with the same crazed look in his eye, the one his father had every time he raised his fists against one of them. But it wasn’t a knowing, assaulting craze, just a suffocating fever that unconsciously embodied Ian’s anger into something much more twisted and dark. That much Mickey could see.

So he did the only thing he could think of and held on tight to Ian’s pale body, prayed that the firmness in his touch made up for the wavering in his voice as the trembles of his body washed over Mickey’s own.

The endless cycle of crashing and burning was not meant to be in the cards for someone as beautiful as Ian.

Mickey sighs, tearing his eyes away from the freezing window pane and glances down at Ian’s unmoving body, damp tank top clinging to his chest and Mickey has the urge to chase down whoever it was that let Ian out into the night air with just a fucking tank top on and jam a couple of punches into their faces. Mickey had tried to cover the man up in his own brown coat as best as he could but the fucker was so tall and the coat barely covered his mid-section. They pass under another series of flickering lights, the shadows dancing over Ian’s sleeping face, and Mickey stares down at him for a second before reaching out to tug the fabric tighter over Ian’s body.

 A pale hand clenches into Mickey’s shirt and a soft whimper buries into his chest, Ian’s nose nuzzled into the worn fabric, and Mickey instinctively clutches the man closer.

 ‘This the place?,’ the driver asks, breaking the silence, and Mickey hasn’t noticed the cab pull up right in front of Ian’s house. He can see the lights on in the rooms upstairs and Mickey envisions the scene play out in the Gallagher household from where he is; Ian’s older sister frantically dialing numbers into the phone, Debbie pacing the room with the kid on her hip, drowning in worry over where their brother could be.

Mickey wonders if his family is up pacing up and down the living room in worry, too.

It’s stupid and completely irrational but Mickey doesn’t want to let Ian go, doesn’t want to break this fragile reality where Ian is allowed to curl into Mickey’s side like he doesn’t hate the smell of sweat and blood and engine oil and Mickey is allowed to let his hands fall inches away from his wild red hair, deluding himself into thinking that the next morning, Ian won’t pretend like the night never happened.

But Mickey shakes him awake gently, making sure his expression is unrevealing, and watches as Ian lifts his head up with a grunt. He instantly misses the warmth.

‘You’re home,’ Mickey says softly, swallowing the lump in his throat, but Ian just shakes his head, eyes wary. He mumbles something under his breath, voice hoarse, before falling back onto Mickey’s lap, fist clenched. Mickey feels light headed at the renewed contact.

‘Hey, you gotta get up. I’ll help you out,’ Mickey presses, voice quieter than it’s ever been, but Ian’s shaking his head again.

‘Don’t wanna be there,’ he chokes out with difficulty and Mickey thinks he knows what Ian’s feeling, on some level. It takes him a long moment contemplating just how this one man has managed to break down every single one of his rules before Mickey gives in.

_Fucking Gallagher._

‘Just down the road, then,’ Mickey calls out to the driver, ignoring the man’s gentle look as he nods through the rear-view mirror in favor of rubbing the heels of his palms into his eyes as the car surges forward again.

Fuck, what’s he thinking, bringing Ian to his house? That’s the worst possible place for him to be – every single one of the Milkoviches is capable of murder, probably even Yev – and right now, they’re all craving Gallagher blood. But it’s home for Mickey; that has to count for something, right?

Mickey sighs.

‘Gonna call your family, let ‘em know you’re alive and shit.’ Ian pulls a sour face from where he’s not buried into fabric but fuck that, Mickey’s not having an angry clan of Gallaghers at his doorstep in the middle of the night. Debbie’s scary enough.

Grabbing at Ian’s phone from where it’s been knocked onto the seats, Mickey sighs heavily, letting his shoulders slump, before rubbing at his forehead and turning on Ian’s phone. It blinks to life and Mickey is taken aback when he finds his own face shining back at him.

Ian’s there, too, and Mickey remembers the night they had taken the photo very clearly, so much that it’s frightening.

It was the night Ian had come by to Mickey’s work –he found himself recalling those few moments more often than he’d like to admit- and when they’d finally grown tired of running around like lunatics in the middle of the night, they settled down against a rusty, quarantined fence, catching their breaths and shot-gunning beer; nothing new but it could’ve been from the tingling Mickey felt crawl up his spine when he caught sight of a trail of beer running down Ian’s chin, down the dragging of his Adam’s apple, and the tightening in his stomach was definitely new. After that, they had just collapsed onto the damp grass, shoulders barely brushing, and Ian just wouldn’t stop staring at him with his bright eyes and lazy, satisfied grin.

‘Wanna take a fucking picture, ginger, stare longer?,’ was Mickey’s instinctive reply but he should’ve cut the sassy crap with Ian because the guy just blinked once before grinning widely and pulling out his phone and actually trying to take a fucking picture of Mickey. And Ian was probably the most stubborn fucker ever; he just wouldn’t give up trying to dangle his long arms in front of Mickey’s face, pouting and pleading where physical assault wouldn’t get the job done. And then Ian had turned the tables by offering Mickey free breakfast at Patsy’s for the rest of the week. He didn’t know why Ian wanted a picture of him so badly but food is food, especially when it’s got high quality icing sugar and Canadian maple syrup drizzled on it.

They’re both pulling strange faces in the dark, the flash of the camera highlighting their faces, and to be honest, the quality is shitty for all the fuss and they look like fucking lunatics. At least Mickey does. Ian’s smiling his bright smile, eyes sparkling with hidden secrets, looking too fucking happy that Mickey finally agreed to take the damn picture.

The weird thing is that Mickey sees the same happy expression reflected on his own face.  

Swallowing hard, he scrolls down to the contact list quickly before coming across a ** _Debs_** with a smiley face, and Mickey snorts before dialing. The line clicks after the first ring.

‘Ian? Oh my gosh, Ian! Are you okay-‘

‘Fuck, yes! He’s fine, calm down,’ Mickey groans, because the girl sounds even worse on the phone, voice high pitched and frantic, as if Mickey doesn’t have a headache already. Maybe he should’ve scrolled down to find another one of Ian’s billion siblings. There’s a silence on the other end before Debbie speaks again, voice calmer but laced with suspicion.

‘Is this Mickey Milkovich? Are you holding Ian hostage?!’

‘FUCK NO!’

Ian winces in his lap at the noise and Mickey unconsciously runs a hand through the man’s soft hair, instinct from all those times Mandy would come home crying to him and he’d wordlessly brush through her locks. He continues again, quieter this time, but seriously – Mickey can’t believe this girl.

‘Look, he’s _fine_ , he’s just tired and-’ _and sick and just went through a fucking psycho episode or a rage fit, fuck knows_ ‘- and he’ll be back in the morning.’

‘6 am,’ she counters.

‘Fuck, okay, fine! 6 am, I’ll drop him off. Jesus fucking Christ,’ Mickey mutters before peeling the phone off of his ear.

‘Is he okay?,’ he hears her ask just before he taps the red button, voice a lot quieter and less demanding than before, and Mickey rolls his eyes.

‘What part of me saying he’s fine 5 fucking times did you not understand?’

‘No, really. Is he okay?,’ and Mickey has feeling Debbie knows about Ian’s tendencies but she’s holding her tongue and really, he’d be worried out of his fucking mind if the same shit happened to Mandy, so Mickey sighs, running his hand through Ian’s over grown hair one more time before pulling away.

‘He’ll be fine, I promise. He’s safe with me,’ he replies, voice barely above a whisper, but the silence on the other end lets him know that he’s been heard.

Hey

Mickey takes in two deep breaths before hanging up.

-

Mandy’s eyes light up when she opens the door to Mickey, only for her brows to furrow at the sight of an unconscious Gallagher hauled over his shoulder. He brushes straight past her and into the house, registering Iggy and Tony put down their playing cards in shock.

A tap drips in the kitchen and Mickey realizes just how exhausted he is.

‘Breathe one fucking word and I’ll shove your tongues so far down your throats you’ll be shitting them out tomorrow morning,’ Mickey states quietly, tone deadly and challenging as he ignores their gaping looks and leads Ian to his room. The door slams loudly behind him.

Mickey doesn’t know what this is, whether Ian is just a heavy sleeper or he’s been sedated or drugged (something tells him it’s not drugs) or if it’s something worse, because his head is still lolling on his neck, limp and innocent and Mickey has the urge to wrap him in his arms again, gather all his long bones and worries and squeeze them together until he’s fine again.

By the time Mickey has carried an unmoving Ian back to his room, he’s too tired to think twice before laying the warm body down onto his own bed.

Except when he tries pull away, Ian tightens his unconscious hold on Mickey’s shirt, white knuckled and firm. Startled, Mickey tries to pry his fingers off but Ian lets out a broken moan, his features crumpling into a frown in his sleep as he clings on, and the expression is so unlike the strong and confident and cocky Ian Mickey’s used to seeing that it makes his stomach roll nauseously. And not for the first time that night, Mickey doesn’t know what to do.

He could wrench his fingers off but that would probably intensify Ian’s frown and for some fucking reason, Mickey can’t stand to see that and his back aches from where he’s crouched over Ian’s body so he gives in and lies next to him gingerly, afraid the man will wake up in alarm. It feels weird and his fingers keep twitching uncomfortably so Mickey shuffles further away from the sleeping man, as far as he can go and of course, Ian tightens his hold and with a single roll, he covers the distance Mickey tried so hard to create until he’s curled against Mickey’s side, warm and soft, before he can protest.

Alarms ring in his head at the sight of Ian rolled in his sheets, sprawled out like a starfish, and Mickey panics because this isn’t right. He never brings men home; it’s either behind the dumpster in the alley or his partner’s house or a hotel room, if he’s lucky. There’s never been a man in his sheets, in his bed, invading his safety, breathing next to Mickey through the night, but some stupid part of his brain that’s been making a regular reoccurrence throughout the night whispers that Ian isn’t just _some man_ Mickey’s fucking around with, though he’d like to…

Fuck, he’s too tired for this.

Of course, Ian’s still sleeping like a baby, oblivious to Mickey’s inner turmoil and though he’d never admit it, he’s glad the expression on his face has softened and his eyebrows are no longer furrowed in worry, or pain. Mickey can count every single freckle on Ian’s cheeks from where he is, can feel his soft breathing against his neck and Mickey sighs, closing his eyes and taking in the sweet scent of cologne and talcum powder he recognizes as the one Yevgeny uses. If Mickey smiles, it’s because his facial muscles are too fucking exhausted to try and frown.

When he’s finally gotten used to the feeling of Ian’s constant heat next to him, when the pounding of their hearts fall in time, when Ian loosens his hold on Mickey’s shirt, it’s too late for him to pull away. He’s already sound asleep.

-

There’s a weight on his leg, or his hip, but it’s pleasant, warm, and Mickey hasn’t had such a blissful sleep in a while. His nights are usually filled with dark silhouettes and shouting figures and his dad’s blood shot eyes, or Mandy’s unconscious body in a ditch somewhere, or his own mother being choked to death, bruising finger prints climbing up her pale neck like staircases. That’s why Mickey prefers to fall asleep when he knows he’s too tired to conjure vivid nightmares, after working out in his room or jogging around the house or passing out with a couple of bottles of beer.

That’s what makes it strange when he feels warmth weighing down the mattress to his right, and it’s too heavy and motionless to be Mandy’s constant twisting and turning, and Mickey would sure as hell know if Svetlana snuck Yevgeny into his bed in the middle of the night.

It takes a minute for Mickey to find his bearings and when his eyes have finally focused on the sight in front of him, inquisitive green eyes are staring right at him.

Mickey leaps up.

‘Jesus fucking _Christ_ , Gallagher! You tryna’ give me a heart attack, set some kind of record?!’

And it all goes to hell when Ian doesn’t react, doesn’t crack a grin or chuckle or ridicule Mickey for squealing like a girl, and last night’s events come flooding back to him.

He studies Ian tentatively instead, the deep bags under his eyes, red hair flopping into his face. At least his eyes aren’t as dull and glassy as they were the night before. Mickey turns away quickly, not wanting to make Ian feel like a test subject or some freak of nature, but he can’t help making sure the guy is okay.

‘You okay?,’ he mutters quietly, darting his eyes to a single shoe toppled over the floor as he feels Ian’s gaze burning into his neck. When he’s met by silence, Mickey risks a glance at the man sleeping next to him and finds the same calculated expression in his eyes, like he’s trying to work something out. Finally, Ian shifts his hand from underneath Mickey’s pillow –and Mickey only has one pillow, no wonder his neck is killing- and licks his dry lips. It’s futile to stop himself from following the movement with his eyes but it doesn’t mean Mickey’s any more comfortable with it.

It’s so out of his depth that it’s hilarious. Why the fuck is he having heart-to-heart conversations with Gallagher in his bed at 5 am in the morning?

When Ian finally speaks, his voice is frail and far away, hoarse from sleep and Mickey’s surprised he speaks at all.

‘Been better.’

Mickey cracks a smile and he can’t tell if he dreams up the upward tilt of Ian’s red lips. Mickey takes a deep breath, ready to comment on Ian’s sleeping habits just to lighten the mood, when Ian’s speaking again.

‘I’m not crazy, Mickey. I’m not. I’m just-‘

‘Hey, I never said you were. Trust me, I’ve seen crazy, and that ain’t it.’

Mickey can see how much courage it took for Ian to confess to that, the furrow in his eyebrows, the hopelessness in his eyes, like he actually thought Mickey would shut him down and drive him to the nuthouse after breakfast. The relief in his eyes kills Mickey more than he’d let on. He looks so small, curled up on himself, staring at Mickey with vulnerable eyes and all he wants to do is rub his back, in between his shoulder blades, or hold him like he did back at the bar, but he doesn’t.

Instead, Mickey inches closer, lies back down on the bed so that he’s face to face with Ian, and tries to get himself to breathe normally, for Ian’s sake. The man seems to take comfort in the action and shifts closer, letting out a shaking breath, closing his eyes again. The morning light falls onto his face, highlights the vibrancy of his hair, his cheekbones. He’s sure the man has dozed off again when he speaks up, voice hoarse and barely above a mumble, like it drains his energy to form a coherent sentence.

‘I’m just tired of everything, y’know,’ and Mickey couldn’t agree more.

‘It’s so easy for everyone else; Fiona can make guys fall in love with her with a click of her heels, Lip doesn’t even have to work hard to get to where he wants in life, he’s a fucking genius, Debbie’s only 14 and she’s already in love, and I’m sat here wondering when it’s my turn to get a chance at life. It fucking sucks to have to fight for everything.’

The fuck is Gallagher talking about? Has he ever looked at himself in the mirror? The guy is all smiles and warmth and a fucking gay daydream, who could resist falling in love with him? But he can relate to that, that feeling of having to sleep with one eye open, arms raised in defense 24 fucking 7.

‘I know,’ Mickey mumbles instead, and Ian looks up at him in surprise. Mickey swallows hard.

‘I had to try not to die at the hands of my fucking dad just because I wanted to be who I am. Even got shot a couple of times, violated probation ‘cause it fucking sucks to pretend to be someone else.’

He flickers his gaze to where Ian is looking at him, bags circling his eyes like smudged lead. And then Ian cracks a faint smile, not as big as Mickey’s used to seeing but equally as heart wrenching.

‘Well, I would’ve visited you in Juvie. Put my hand on the glass like in the movies,’ and Mickey can’t help but grin, shaking his head.

‘Fuck you, you wouldn’t,’ he laughs and Ian’s laughing along but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. They settle into a comfortable silence after that, just breathing, just being, and for once, Mickey trusts himself to look Ian straight in the eyes.

‘Y’know, we should’ve met sooner,’ Ian says softly, humor almost forced in his voice, like Mickey can shake off the statement as a joke and it wouldn’t matter. But he doesn’t shake it off; he does the complete opposite as he regards the pale man in his bed.

‘Maybe we should’ve.’

They settle into silence again but the look Ian sends Mickey is more intense, the way he regards him with wide eyes like he’s brave and strong and has a golden heart, when in fact, all Mickey has to offer him is a house with no heating and his shitty, fragmented version of emotion. Mickey doesn’t think he’s seen anyone look so tired and gentle in his life and a deep-rooted anger surges through him at the unfairness of it all; he wants to protect this man.

-

Dishes clatter in the sink, followed by a loud ‘fuck!’ and Mickey walks into the kitchen to find Mandy fumbling with what looks like scrambled eggs and toast. Who would believe she worked at a waffle house for about 6 months?

She stops whatever she’s been trying to do when she notices Mickey, holding a frying pan out in midair and regarding him with an unreadable expression before cracking a leering grin.

‘So, you fuck him?’

‘Fry your fucking eggs, Mandy,’ Mickey mutters in reply, grabbing his sisters ridiculously girly mug of coffee and taking a long sip. She just shrugs, still smiling, before placing the pan on the cooker and heating it up.

‘So we holding him hostage, then?’

Mickey spurts out his coffee, coughing.

‘Why does everyone keep thinking that?! If I was gonna keep him hostage I wouldn’t have brought him 3 fucking blocks away from his goddamn house, now would I?’

‘Then why’d you bring him?,’ Mandy shoots back, not at all deterred by Mickey’s attempt at hostility and lack of co-operation. It works on everyone else, Iggy and Tony would back away in surrender almost instantly, even Svetlana would leave him alone after a glare, but Mandy is Mandy, after all.

And for that reason, he can’t lie to her. She’d see right through it, and Mickey doesn’t feel like bull-shitting around his life.

‘Dunno. He’s just- I- Dunno,’ Mickey breathes in exasperation, rubbing his calloused palms into his eyes before plopping down on the table. Mandy’s uncharacteristic vanilla soap washes over him as he feels her sit across the table, cross-legged on the chair.

‘He looked pretty coked out,’ Mandy observes after snagging the coffee in front of Mickey, and fine, they were having this conversation, no use fighting it.

‘Not drugs, man. Something else, I dunno,’ Mickey confesses, feeling the familiar comfort of his sister’s support relieve the tension in his shoulders. They’d work it out, together. He could tell from the defensiveness in Mandy’s eyes, the tight set of her jaw; if it was important to Mickey, it was important to her.

‘Could be post-trauma, if something big went down. Maybe depression, mood swings, maybe something as big as bipolar,’ she lists, sounding so self-assured and professional and Mickey wonders what else he’s missed in her life, and he’s so goddamn relieved she got out of the South Side before she could torch down her future like the rest of them.

The words are still big and heavy, like thick bubbles of soap forming in the air between them, and Mickey wants nothing more than to pop each and every one of them and make sure they have nothing to do with Ian. Ian isn’t depressed, he’s just…down. Angry, beat up. It happens to everyone.

Noticing Mickey’s silence, Mandy clears her throat and changes the subject. Except Mickey doesn’t want to talk about that, either.

‘You do know that Ig and Tony are gonna find Frank, right? They left a couple of hours ago, gonna track him down again. You gotta let them have that, Mick.’

‘I know, I know, just,’ Mickey exhales again, stomach tightening when he thinks about Ian sleeping soundlessly a room away.

‘I just wanna protect him, Mandy. Why does that make me such a bad person?’

Mandy smiles, a tiny tilt of her lips.

‘Doesn’t. Just makes you more human than the rest of us.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked this chapter even though it wasn't very eventful! Also, any suggestions you have for this fic are welcome; I know where I want to go with this but I'm not sure how to get there :') 
> 
> Comments and kudos make me a happy girl :'D


	7. that boy, take me away, into the night, out of the hum of the street lights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They’re walking aimlessly, Ian humming in content and Mickey has finally stopped bitching about how air hockey is gay, when they reach the line for the Ferris wheel. It’s spinning slowly, leisurely, lighting up the sky with no effort at all, and Ian wonders what it would feel like to be so high up, if it’s what Monica felt when she climbed up that roof years ago and tried to jump off.

There‘s a girl hovering over him who he almost mistakes for Fiona, except there are dirty-blonde bangs falling into her eyes and equally as messy hair spilling out of her loose pony tail instead of Fiona‘s brown curls, mouth opening and closing and scowling and growling, and _oh, she must be talking,_ that must explain the noise. It must be her stature that resembles his oldest sister; lanky and scrawny with sharp shoulders revealed by her too-loose black sweater and the same tired eyes, only hers are an unnatural blue, bright and alive unlike the rest of her frail body. They remind him of-

She stills when she realizes Ian is awake, a comical pause of her thin lips as she assesses the situation, and then she‘s running her mouth again, words too fast and drilling a migraine into Ian‘s head as she draws her hand back to cross across her chest defensively, shoulders hunching.

‘Where’s Mickey?,’ he hears himself mumble, but the girl just ignores him.

‘Fucking _finally._ Jesus, I thought Mickey was exaggerating about you sleeping like the fucking dead,‘ she mutters, and Ian can only fumble a nod as he wraps his head around the fact that this must be Mickey‘s sister, but all the excitement of delving into another part of Mickey‘s world is replaced with a rush of embarrassment and complete disgust as he realizes his situation; why he‘s got dried blood on his knuckles, why he‘s wrapped up in sheet‘s that smell so strongly of a certain Milkovich, why he can‘t seem to clear the all too familiar fog in his head.

Ian darts up quickly, clutching at his mouth to try and stop himself from throwing up, stomach heaving painfully as he tries to co-ordinate himself to get to the bathroom. But before he can take a step forward or topple onto the floor, firm hands are placed flat on his chest, pushing him back onto the bed and an empty yoghurt bucket magically finds itself in Ian‘s hands. He doesn‘t question it.

Nothing comes out, though, and Ian should have expected as much – the last time he had a proper meal was a whole 24 hours ago –but eventually it resides into just faint shivers that make him feel 6 years old again, Fiona rubbing his back as he throws up whatever scraps of food they managed to find for lunch that day.

‘Here.‘

There‘s a small white pill on a small white palm and Ian wonders how many times he‘ll see the same image, the same pill being offered to him in different forms, cures of depression, nausea, psychotic, bipolar, whatever the fuck else is wrong with him. He hates them, how they’re small enough to convince him into thinking that they don‘t change anything, don‘t turn him inside out and into a shell of the person he is.

‘It‘s just to stop the heaving,‘ she offers again, voice quiet and measured, like she‘s trying not to set off a chain reaction, and so he takes it from her hand. The difference in size between Ian‘s hand and hers would have made his lips turn up in a small smile.

They sit in silence after that, white sheets still circled around Ian‘s waist as he watches her from the corner of his eye, the rocking of her bare heels from where they‘re crossed at her ankles, the chipped black nail polish of her toenails. So this is the mystery of the Milkovich sister. She‘s not old, probably the same age as Ian, and something tells him that she still goes to school.

‘Alright, time‘s up. Let‘s get you out of here,‘ she jumps to her feet abruptly and stands in front of Ian expectantly, clear eyes locking with his, and he doesn‘t have the energy to do anything but stare back up at her in confusion. When he doesn‘t make a move, the girl just rolls her eyes, mutters something about men being incompetent, and proceeds to wrap her arms around Ian‘s torso and actually pulls him up.

Before he knows it, she‘s pushed him out of the room, her sharp shoulder blades digging into his back from where she‘s pushing him backwards, right towards the front door. Ian finally catches on and digs his heels into the ratty carpet.

‘Hey, the fuck is your problem, big guy? You know I can take you down right here, right now, but that would make it harder for-‘

‘’M not going,’ Ian mutters, and he feels a couple more futile attempts at getting him to move past from where he’s planted himself in the middle of the hallway before she gives up. Ian almost grins.

And then she’s jabbing her fingers into his sides, his ribs, his stomach, and it’s actually quite painful but Ian finds himself laughing anyway, trying his best to swat her hands away. It surprises him, the hoarse laughter rumbling in his chest and it feels like crying and smiling at the same time – that kind of messed up.  Apparently she’s planned it all out, this whole scheme of getting Ian out of her house, and she’s clearly versed in the arts of tickling/attacking her victims because when he doubles over, clutching his stomach, she takes the chance to place her small hands on the expanse of his back and shove him straight for the door. Of course, the rug gets caught between Ian’s feet and they both tumble over clumsily.

It shouldn’t be this funny because Ian is fucking bruised, and it stings like a bitch where he falls on his hip, but he can’t seem to stop laughing, a string of strange, painful-sounding noises that don’t sound anything like laughter tumbling out of his lips, and he’s scared he’ll start collapsing in tears or having a break down or whatever it is that people do when they’re going crazy. He immediately shuts up when Mickey’s sister shoots her head up from underneath the rug and sends him a sharp glare and he’s sure he’s going to get to see all her elite, South-side take down techniques in a couple of seconds and that would be the end of Ian Gallagher.

Tightening her jaw, she holds Ian’s stare for another agonizing second before she’s rolling her large eyes and huffing out a laugh, punching Ian roughly on the shoulder, smile lighting up her face. It’s alarming how the one action softens her features so dramatically; her soft cheeks dimpling with a honey glow, bangs falling into her eyes again and she looks like a timid little girl, something like Debbie when she was a young and innocent- well, Debbie was never innocent, but still.  Ian blinks before smiling back at this softer, more vulnerable version of Milkovich, the first real smile in ages. It feels good.

The thing is that Ian’s never been around girls, not really. They had tried engaging him in conversations and movies but gave up when he never showed up, preferring to spend time with Kash behind the freezer, and he never really had any other friends in high school aside from Lip, so that was that. He would get hit on every so often but girls would lose interest when he rejected them, so it’s clear that Ian has no idea how to act around girls. There was Karen Jackson but she was a whole different species of human – Ian doesn’t think reading out chemical formulas to Mickey’s sister would do much.

Ian likes the casual, no-bullshit vibe he gets from her, much like Mickey’s but a whole lot more nonchalant and natural. She doesn’t seem like the type to give a shit about whether or not he’s fucked in the head or fucking others in the ass, but she did give a shit enough to find a bucket for Ian and some medicine. She reminds him of Carl in a way, the psychotic, loud-mouthed exterior and the softer person hiding inside.

He wonders if she has any friends, stuck inside the gloomy Milkovich house only a couple of blocks from his own. Or if she works, or what she likes doing in her free time.

‘I’m Ian,’ he blurts out, pulling himself up and holding out a hand she just swats away, smile still on her face, as she stands up, hand on her hip.

‘Oh, are we really doing this? You forget the part where you were sleeping in my brother’s bed and tried to puke all over it?,’ she remarks, eye brows raised incredulously and Ian’s smile falters.

Ah, shit.

‘But I’m Mandy,’ she finishes with a breath and looks up to grin at Ian, blue eyes circled with rich black eye-liner and it’s crazy how much she looks like Mickey.

All Ian remembers is glimpses; Mickey’s clear eyes illuminated by the city lights, the feeling of his hands wrapped around his body, holding him close, piecing him together. He remembers jolting awake after dreams of blood on his hands and decomposing bodies and just watching the fluttering of Mickey’s eyelashes mere inches away from him and the steady rise and fall of his chest calmed Ian. So he stayed awake, tracing the sleeping man’s features in astonishment; the soft skin of his cheeks, his plump, pillowed lips, tattooed fingers that looked so small compared to Ian’s own, and he had realized that he had never wanted to kiss anyone more than in that moment. Instead, Ian swallowed down the urge and settled for laying his hand a brush away from Mickey’s, playing a little game in his head of whether or not he should take it, and the man had woken up before Ian could decide.

It’s not like it was really a game; Ian knows what he would have done.

‘So, Mandy. Know where Mick is?’ he pauses, looking down and rubbing the back of his neck distractedly. Ian knows how worried Fiona and the others probably are but he doesn’t want to step into his house to a roomful of pitying expressions and pills placed on the counter with his name printed on them. He would just  crawl back into bed after a deflated conversation with Fiona, sedated and heavy and fucking floating away at the same time, and would wait for tomorrow to bring back the same thing.

‘Work. He told me to take you back home before ‘Ms. Gingerbread starts bitching’, so that’s what I’m trying to do,’ Mandy says, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, regarding Ian with pursed lips.

‘Fuck, don’t tell me he’s scared of Debbie,’ Ian snorts, Mandy shooting him a weird look that he just returns with a grin and he’s just about to launch into how Mickey thought Debbie was Liam’s mom when the front door bursts open, said Gallagher stood right in the middle of the doorway.

Ian has to admit, the image of an angry Debbie with clenched fists and a murderous glare kind of scares the shit out of him, even with a giggling Liam clinging to her jean-clad calf and the fact that it’s in the middle of the day.

‘MICKEY MILKOVICH! WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU!?’

‘What the fuck do you want? This aint a freak show, cherry!,’ Mandy snaps back ferociously, undeterred and taking Debbie head on, a second away from baring her canines. Ian’s impressed.

‘You sure about that, blondie? I don’t think-,’ Debbie stops mid threat to cast her gaze towards Ian, finally noticing his presence in the shadows, and her spiteful scowl immediately slackens in worry as she breathes a sigh of relief. And shit, if Ian didn’t feel guilty before, he’s practically drowning it in now.

‘Ian!,’ he hears her exclaim before he’s got a handful of red hair and too-sweet perfume pressed against his chest. Ian’s arms ache as he lifts them to wrap them around his little sister. Liam mumbles something as he feels his tiny hands clasp around Ian’s kneecap, soft and warm.

‘Jesus, Debs! I told you to wait,’ and Lip suddenly materializes at the door, eyebrows furrowed in worry, when he catches sight of Ian (plus Debbie and Liam) and exhales slowly, eyes conveying all the words he’ll never say. And this is where the old Ian would normally get a playful punch to the chest or find himself wrapped in a headlock with Lip reprimanding him like the ideal brother he tries to be, but instead, this Ian gets Lip’s arms clapped around his shoulders, muscular and familiar. He’ll bring it up one day, how he hates the fact Lip thinks he’s never going to see him again when he shows up after being away for one freaking night, just not today. For a good reason, too, because Mandy’s tapping her bare foot against the marble floor and setting a new record for patience.

‘So, is that all of you? Any other nosy Gallagher spawn gonna be bursting through my front door?,’ she drawls sarcastically, shooting daggers at Lip and Debbie.

‘Does the police count? ‘Cause as far as I’m concerned, your brother kind of kidnapped Ian sometime during the night and got him a whole new set of bruises and cuts.’

‘Mickey didn’t fucking kidnap me, Lip. He saved my life, okay? Leave him the fuck out of it and leave Mandy alone.’

‘He saved your life, did he? Quite the selfless one, I must say. Saved your life after throwing it under the bus in the first place, I’m guessing,’ Lip mutters, not quite retreating but diverting his eyes from Ian’s all the same as he ushers Liam to his side, and Ian knows his older brother well enough to know that he’s silently riling him up. It’s working.

‘How about you stop fucking guessing,’ Ian snaps angrily, and Mandy shifts to his side instinctively, face impassive.

A tense silence fills the room but Ian’s too fucking pissed off to care. Lip has decided to show his judgmental-asshole face today, it seems, because he’s the last person Ian would expect to look down on others, Milkoviches included. Why is it so hard for him to believe that Mickey actually took care of him? Ian knows that this could go two ways, both of them ending horribly, so he reins in his anger and breathes out, rubbing a tired hand over his face.

‘Look, I’m sorry I worried you guys, I really am. I just had some business to take care of and I got caught up in a mess and I really owe Mickey one, so I’d appreciate it if you didn’t come barging in here like lunatics. Mandy was just about to drop me off,’ Ian breathes out steadily, watching as Lip swallows hard and nods his head after a moment of hesitation. Debbie wraps her hands around Ian’s pale arm, grasping tightly as she gives him a small smile before urging him towards the door, Lip and Liam already outside. Turning around, Ian rolls his eyes and shoots a still-scowling Mandy an apologetic smile before heading out.

‘See ya’ ‘round, Gallagher,’ she calls out, amusement lurking in her voice, and if he were to turn around, Ian is sure he’d find a smirk on her lips.

‘Nice meeting you, too, _Mandy Milkovich_ ,’ Lip grins from over his back, turning around to raise an eyebrow at Mandy, who just sneers in response. Ian shoves him forward with a roll of his eyes because seriously, how can Lip possibly think flirting with Mandy like that will get him anywhere other than a face plant on the sidewalk?

‘That was only for Ian, shitface!,’ and the door slams loudly behind her.

They shuffle down the street, Lip tossing him his coat with a witty remark and Ian just grins after hauling Liam up on his shoulders, singing a military chant that even Debbie joins in on. This is okay, Ian decides. He can pretend he’s not so fucked up when Liam is squealing in glee when Ian starts jogging slowly, his baby hands pulling at Ian’s long hair, mumbling something like ‘run, horsey!’

This is okay.

-

Ian loves Fiona. No matter how pressurizing or worrying she gets, he will never stop loving her. That’s all Ian can think when he watches wordlessly, mouth open in amazement, as a storming Fiona Gallagher slams his pills on the doctor’s table and demands something that ‘doesn’t make my brother feel like the cast of the Walking fucking Dead, thank you very much’. He tried doing the same thing a while back, explaining with exasperation how the pills make him want to dig his insides out, but all he got were concerned looks and recommendations of fucking _shrinks._

The doctor’s concerned looks are for a whole different reason this time, her lips pressed in a thin line as she scribes something down on her pad, wilting under Fiona’s smoldering gaze before ripping out a piece of paper and handing it to Ian.

‘Report back to me in 2 weeks if it changes anything,’ she mutters quietly as Ian takes the paper with an animalistic, triumphant grin that makes sweat drip down her forehead.

Ian’s sure she fans herself the second the Gallagher siblings are out the door, arm in arm.

‘This doesn’t mean you’re off the hook, Ian. No more winding up at the Milkoviches –‘ here Fiona shoots him a wide-eyed look of bewilderment – ‘of all people, Jesus. And you better take these pills, ya hear me?’

The sun is planted in the middle of the sky, making the ice underneath Ian’s ratty sneakers shimmer like diamonds and his skin feel warm. It bounces off of Fiona’s wild curls, highlighting the lighter colors, and it’s like the times the two of them would go jogging together in the middle of the city, too fast for people to do anything but complain. When Fiona had noticed how early Ian would set out to jog during his first bipolar episode, he would find her at the front door a few mornings later, dressed in her running gear with peanut butter sandwiches in a bag and a challenging grin on her face.

‘Yeah, yeah. Thanks Fi,’ Ian says with a smile, feeling like a little kid again as he follows her across the road, her smaller hand instinctively reaching for his as they make their way past  a rush of angry drivers who’ve had too little coffee and too much traffic. Some man in a pink tie beeps his horn at them and they both pause to flip him off simultaneously.

‘So what’s up with the Milkoviches, anyway? Hope you’re not doing anything illegal with them,’ she says, protectiveness slipping back into her voice.

‘Hey, that didn’t seem to stop Carl.’

‘That was different. Illegal in Milkovich terms is like playing bulls-eye with strangers on the street and then dumping their bodies in convenience stores just for kicks. Not too fun.’

‘I dunno, sounds pretty fun to me,’ Ian grins, earning him a thump on his chest.

‘Don’t worry. I just-I wasn’t feeling too good and Mickey let me stay the night,’ he adds quietly, Fiona shooting him a side-ways glance before waggling her eyebrows comically.

‘Stay the night, huh?’

Ian flips her off but she’s already racing down the street, grinning from ear to ear.

-

Ian takes his pills – he doesn’t have a death wish – and they do make a difference, though subtly. At least now Ian’s head is a lot clearer, his limbs less lethargic; it’s a start.

Apparently he’s brightened up a lot because everyone in house –plus Kev and V- are demanding to take him along to some fairground road side attraction, which sounds fun in retrospect except for the fact that they live in the Southside, and more often than not, fairgrounds end up being a couple of swings and deflated bouncy castles. The only one who doesn’t come back disappointed is Carl; he manages to cause even more havoc and torments the poor kids with a clown mask and Ian’s ROTC knife up until Fiona drags them all home.

So Ian doesn’t see how this time is supposed to be any different and explains as much to V, who’s braiding Debbie’s hair and shooting down every single one of Ian’s arguments, the multitasker. It’s supposed to be really big and fancy this time, quote from Sean, who’s gone and bought them all tickets, so there goes the price argument. Lip has somehow agreed to come along and waste his day off – Ian is almost certain he’s been paid to do so- and even Debbie looks somewhat excited.

So Ian piles in Sean’s car, both Gemma and Liam on his lap, and prays there’s at least some decent booze at wherever it is they’re going.

-

It’s actually fucking impressive; spinning colors and laughter and the scent of caramel popcorn filling the night air, the sound of a rollercoaster creaking against its tracks as people scream like their souls are being extracted over Ian’s head, and a glowing Ferris wheel that takes up the entire sky.

‘What’d I tell you, Ian?,’ V says smugly, taking Gemma out of his hands and looking at the place like she birthed it herself. Liam is circling Fiona’s legs like a broken toy, squealing again, and Sean picks him up with a grin as the couple make their way to wherever Liam is pointing his tiny finger.

‘I want everyone back here by 12!,’ Fiona calls out over her back, fixing Ian with a raise of her eyebrows before turning around and bounding away into the sea of people, Liam’s head poking out from where he’s perched on Sean’s shoulders.

In the next 10 seconds, Derek has magically appeared and stowed Debbie away to win one of those freaky looking stuffed animals for her, Kev and V have disappeared to watch a magic show with their children, and Lip is still trying to light his cigarette. Ian huffs out a laugh.

‘We’ve been ditched,’ Ian remarks, looking around to take in his surroundings. It’s all kind of dizzying and Ian’s sure he’ll be going home with a migraine, but it’s a warm anticipation. There’s a neon sign reading Bump Your Cars and it looks promising, with the way the people are leaning over to deliver grinning threats. It’s not his favorite game but Lip likes it almost as much as Carl.

‘No fucking way, Bumper Cars! Let’s check it out,’ Lip calls out after following Ian’s line of sight and soon enough, he’s being dragged towards a line of people peeking through the fence and chanting encouraging words to their friends. There’s a cluster of people crowded around one side of the area, looking way too invested in a game of Bumper Cars for it to be healthy. Damn, Southsiders sure are deprived.

‘Fuuuuck,’ Ian hears Lip breathe behind him.

So that’s what all the commotion is about; Mandy Milkovich hammering everyone with her glittering purple car, eyes animated and wild as she brutally crashes into some poor guy with tiny glasses that go flying off. The crowd lets out a pitying ‘Oh!’ as the girl continues her assault on her victims up until a bell rings and she hops out of her car, grinning.

‘If it isn’t Mandy Milkovich. That was child’s play back in there,’ Lip calls out just as Mandy approaches them, handing his ticket to the attendant, and Mandy narrows her eyes with a sly grin.

‘You sure ‘bout that, _Phillip?_ It’d be a shame if you got your precious Gallagher ass kicked by me, eh?,’ she taunts, and Ian’s curious about who would win their little match, really, but he’d rather not see it play out in front of him. Especially if Lip loses; carrying his dead body home to Fiona and the others isn’t something he wants to do.

‘Good luck with that. Make me proud!,’ Ian rushes out, no idea who he’s encouraging, as he stuffs his own ticket in Mandy’s hands and gets the hell out of there before teeth go flying. Mandy just grins and waves at him and Ian turns around with a light sigh before smacking face-first into Mickey Milkovich.

‘Just tell me if you’re not going to use those eyes, fuckface, and I’ll just tear ‘em out,’ he snarls before standing up straight, jaw slackening in surprise as Ian tries to control the smile on his face. He looks good, off-white sweater peeking out from underneath his black muscle tank, hair jelled up and a single chain around his neck. Fuck, _Mickey looks so good._

‘Hey, Mick. Didn’t think this was your scene,’ Ian grins, watching as the shorter man huffs out a sigh, biting his bottom lip.

‘Mandy. She found a way to sneak us in for free, so. Figured it wouldn’t be a complete waste of time,’ Mickey mutters, fidgeting in place, and Ian laughs softly before walking ahead of him, hoping he would follow. Seeing Mickey has just made his night a thousand times better.

‘C’mon, let’s find something fun to do,’ Ian says, trying to hide the grin threatening to break out on his face when Mickey falls into step next to him, still grumpy and irritable as always but still looking pretty happy.

‘What, you takin’ me out on a date, Gallagher?,’ he mutters, looking around the place with skeptical eyes before reaching Ian’s again, brilliant blue illuminated by the bright lighting of the fairground.

‘If you want me to,’ Ian hums out, and he’s sure the hint of hopeful seriousness in his tone hasn’t been hidden very well when Mickey looks up from underneath his dark lashes, studying him intently. He can feel his heart hammer in his throat.

‘High Striker, High Striker! Come and play!’

Ian turns his attention to the man dressed in pinstripes and a top hat right behind them, and Mickey raises his eyebrow at the striker with an appreciative grin. _Of course_ he’d want to play.

Handing the attendant his ticket, Ian picks up the red mallet, weighing it in his hands, before glancing over at Mickey from where he’s stood a couple of steps back, amusement and curiosity painted on his features. Swinging his arm, Ian hits the pad hard, watching as the lights go up the scale, climbing up to 29. The attendant claps his hands, cheering, while Mickey grins and takes the mallet from his hands.

‘Tough guy, huh? Bet I can reach 30,’ he mutters before swinging hard with a soft grunt, the glowing lights stopping at 26. Mickey’s jaw drops.

‘It’s fuckin rigged,’ he says and Ian tries not to laugh but it soon escalates into Mickey slamming the striker with the mallet quite viciously and he has to take it from his hands.

‘Fuck, Mickey, stop!,’ but Mickey smashes the game one more time before letting go of the hammer with a grin, Ian’s arms still wrapped around his frame as he pries the object away from him. Jesus, and people say _he’s_ the crazy one.

Mickey stays in his embrace a second longer than necessary, fitting right into the cradle of Ian’s chest, and he takes a second to appreciate how much smaller the other man is before Ian’s being shrugged off.

‘You gotta stop fuckin doing that, Mick. We’re gonna get kicked out and that won’t be any fun,’ Ian says when they’ve finally moved past the scowling attendant, Ian still muttering apologies as Mickey laughs whole heartedly, completely unapologetic.

‘Hey, race you to the rollercoaster,’ Mickey calls out suddenly, dashing out in a sprint.

Shaking his head with a fond smile, Ian follows.

-

Ian’s sure he hasn’t laughed so hard in his entire life. Mickey has tested the limits of every single game – he actually broke the water gun for Lights Up and aimed it at Ian instead of the fucking target – and it’s a good thing that they’re both fast runners and the place is too crowded for people to hunt them down for their shit. Well, Mickey’s shit.

They’ve been on every single ride, played every game, even the stuffed animal machine Mickey tried to win (for target practice, Gallagher, seriously) and even bought kid ice cream cones that tasted like paper. Ian’s dripping wet, smells like a sewer and has cotton candy in his hair but it’s still the best night he’s had in ages.

They’re walking aimlessly, Ian humming in content and Mickey has finally stopped bitching about how air hockey is gay, when they reach the line for the Ferris wheel. It’s spinning slowly, leisurely, lighting up the sky with no effort at all, and Ian wonders what it would feel like to be so high up, if it’s what Monica felt when she climbed up that roof years ago and tried to jump off.

‘Hey, wanna go on the Ferris Wheel?’

‘Doesn’t that shit last for an hour or something?,’ Mickey says through his cigarette, glancing up at the ride.

‘Half an hour,’ Ian corrects and watches the shorter man out of the corner of his eye.

‘Why, you too scared to go alone?,’ and Ian huffs out a laugh.

‘Yes, I’m too scared to go alone. Please end my fear and come with me on the ride, Mickey Milkovich,’ Ian exclaims dramatically, batting his lashes in Mickey’s face until the man chokes out a laugh and finally relents.

‘Whatever, man.’

-

‘You owe me one, Gallagher,’ Mickey grumbles and Ian rolls his eyes before shoving him in through the carriage. It’s small, not too small for it to be uncomfortable but still the closest he’s been in a room with Mickey, with windows all four sides looking out at the night sky. Ian sits down facing Mickey, pulling his knee up to his chest.

‘Stop looking so smug,’ Mickey calls out after he’s settled next to Ian, gazing outside the window. ‘Don’t know what the big deal about this is, anyway.’

‘It hasn’t even started yet, Mick.’

They settled into a comfortable silence, both of them looking outside until the carriage finally starts moving. Ian can’t help but smile as he feels himself being lifted off the ground, overlooking the rides and attractions as they gain altitude. Chancing a glance at Mickey, Ian turns to see the man staring out of the window, lost in thought and still for the first time that night.

‘Hey, that baby. Is he yours?,’ Ian suddenly blurts out, and Mickey snaps his head to look at him, surprised, and _shit, well done, Ian, you’ve ruined everything._ Why’d he have to go and run his fucking mouth?

But Mickey just holds his gaze, no hint of irritation on his face, and he’s just as surprised as Ian is when he answers.

‘Yeah.’

‘She your wife?’

‘Legally,’ Mickey says before gazing back out of the window, eyes bright.

‘She lives with you?’

‘Jesus, Gallagher, we playing 21 questions or something?’

Ian searches Mickey’s face for any signs of annoyance or hostility but the man just looks surprised and taken aback, like he didn’t really expect Ian to care. So Ian just smiles.

‘Sure, why not? Question number four...’ Ian takes a deep breath, tries to summon up the courage to ask the question he’s been wondering about for far too long.

‘Are you gay?,’ he finishes, hoping the nervousness doesn’t show in his voice.

Mickey looks back up at him from underneath his lashes, eyes lazy and alluring and _fuck,_ he has to stop doing that because it drives Ian insane. There’s a tiny smirk pulling at his lips when he looks away again. The carriage starts moving again, lifts them higher up into the night sky.

‘So what if I am?’

Ian swallows hard. _Shit, what was he supposed to do now?_

‘Out?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Are you?,’ Ian asks again, curious, and Mickey barks out laughter, face lighting up.

‘Fuck, you really suck at this game, don’t you?,’ and Ian laughs as well, the tension relieved off his shoulders as he brings up his other knee to pull to his chest. Mickey’s facing him fully now, only a metre away.

‘Fine, fine,’ Ian admits, wracking his brain for something he really wants to know about Mickey and won’t make Ian look like a lovesick fool.

‘Happiest moment of your life?,’ Ian settles on and Mickey snorts, giving him an unimpressed look.

‘That the best you can come up with?’

‘Humour me,’ and Ian finds himself smiling again but Mickey shakes his head and looks outside. For someone who was so against the idea of going on the ride, the man seems content. They’re a good feat up, now, people just small dots scurrying around underneath their feet. Mickey’s gone quiet, staring outside silently, and Ian’s sure he’s not going to answer the question.

‘When Mandy was born. She screamed and cried and was just a red pile of flesh but I loved her. Iggy and Tony were too old, Terry started taking them out on runs when they were 9, and I was stuck at home doing nothing until Mandy showed up. We’d do the craziest shit together, catch frogs in the cookie jar, sell a bunch of useless shit to buy a half broken TV.’

Mickey stops abruptly, rubbing his lip with a finger; a habit Ian has realised he does when he’s nervous or thinking.

‘Yeah, I like Mandy, too,’ Ian comments softly, resting his head on the glass and Mickey snorts again.

‘She’s only nice to you ‘cause you look like fucking Prince Charming,’ he mutters and Ian sits up immediately, grinning from ear to ear.

‘You think I’m handsome?’

 ‘Never said that, Gallagher,’ Mickey shoots back in defense, sitting up with palms up as Ian inches closer.

‘Oh, really?,’ he asks, knocking into the outer wall of the carriage and it actually fucking _rocks._ Mickey’s face goes pale and Ian howls with laughter.

‘What was that you were saying before, Mick? About being scared?,’ he grins, watching as Mickey fumbles to try to get Ian to stop them from rocking and falling out of the fucking carriage.

‘Shit, cut it out, Gallagher,’ he calls before tackling Ian and knocking him to the ground and after a moment of rolling and wrestling and rough housing, Ian finally manages to trap Mickey’s smaller wrists underneath his own and pin him to the floor. His blue eyes are wide in alarm as he licks his soft lips, Ian’s eyes following the motion hungrily. Instead, Ian lingers his gaze back up to Mickey’s face, searching, as the man shifts underneath him, air sparking with electricity.

Ian knows how easy it would be to strip then and there, get on top of Mickey and finally put an end to all the unresolved sexual tension circling them, but that would make the whole thing so fucking _cheap._ Mickey isn’t a casual fuck on a road-side attraction, for God’s sake. Still, with Mickey half-hard and fidgeting underneath him, it’s hard to focus his attention on anything else.

Ian’s lucky Mickey’s eyes are so expressive, betraying his emotions, and he loses himself in the clear blue depths, voice going soft.

‘Question number ten; did you have fun today?’

Ian has to hand it to him, even in his current position Mickey still manages to swerve the question.

‘Who doesn’t like games?,’ he says, voice rough and unusually gravelly.

‘Not what I meant, Mick,’ Ian says softly and he can see the exact moment Mickey gives in.

‘Yes, I did have fun today, Gallagher. Happy now?’

Ian grins, leaning further until their noses are a brush away. Mickey’s Adam’s apple drags along his pale throat as he swallows.

‘Ecstatic.’

Mickey just shoots him an incredulous look, eyebrows rising comically, before he flips them over in a swift motion, Ian’s back hitting the floor of the carriage hard as Mickey straddles his waist, eyes glittering with mischief.

‘My turn. You single?’

‘Way to cut to the chase, Mickey,’ Ian laughs, enjoying the feeling of Mickey’s thighs clenching around his torso and fingers digging into his forearms and the man just flashes a lopsided grin that shouldn’t be as charming as it is. He likes this, just him and Mickey floating somewhere among the stars, escaping the reality of their shitty lives.

‘Yes, I’m single. Why’d you ask?’

‘Uh-uh, you don’t get to ask any questions, redhead. Favorite sibling?’

‘Gathering all the dirt, eh,’ Ian chuckles, and Mickey just rolls his eyes before shuffling on Ian’s hips, the friction making his cock hard.

‘L-Lip,’ Ian answers, trying to keep his breathing under control. Mickey just smirks, oblivious (or not) to Ian’s discomfort and leans back, releasing Ian’s wrists.

‘Guilty pleasure?’

‘Don’t got any.’

‘Worst moment of your life?’

Ian falters, but only for a second.

‘I-Uh. I got ratted out to military prison by a fucked up half-sister with too much time on her hands. And my family kind of convinced the officers that I was batshit crazy, in more words than that. I guess I was necessary but it still kind of stung, y’know? More than the rest of the crap that’s happened to me. You’d think your family isn’t capable of saying stuff like that.’

Mickey just cocks his head to the side, lost in thought, before moving on. Ian’s grateful.

 ‘What would you save if your house was on fire?’

‘My little siblings.’

‘Come the fuck on, Gallagher. Quit it with the melodrama,’ Mickey scoffs, rolling his eyes.

‘Army knife,’ Ian finally decides.

‘What’s the best thing that’s happened to you recently?’

‘I met this guy who I think is pretty awesome.’

‘Oh yeah?’

‘Uh-huh. I don’t know if he likes me, though.’

‘What would you do if he did?’

Mickey’s inching closer, gaze intent on Ian’s lips, and he feels his heart pound in his throat.

No one’s ever liked Ian before, really liked him. Not Kash liking the thought of getting fucked by a guy, not Ned and his infatuation with running his hands up and down Ian’s chest, not any of the tricks at Fairy Tale. He’s replaceable; it isn’t hard to find another tall ginger dude with freckles and muscles to satisfy desires. But no one’s ever liked Ian for who he is inside, and quite honestly, he has no idea what he’d do.

‘I really don’t know.’

They’re both whispering now, all humour dissipated and nothing but hope and fear and attraction and honesty brewing in the air between them.

‘What would you do if he kissed you?’

’21 questions are up,’ is all Ian breathes, praying that Mickey just ends his misery and closes the distance between them. His head spins with Mickey’s scent, overwhelming and sending him into vertigo, the carriage suddenly suffocating.

There’s a loud creak and the door of the carriage is being pulled open, and Mickey shoots off of him like a cat, rubbing at his lip and avoiding Ian’s gaze as he walks through the door and into the fresh night air.

‘See you around, Gallagher,’ and no fucking way is Mickey going to do this to him. Grabbing Mickey’s arm, Ian yanks him around, pulling him in for a kiss that is way too gentle and contradictory to his earlier actions, but it doesn’t fucking matter. The man parts his lips in a small ‘o’, lips soft and moving around Ian’s, and before he can wrap his head around the fact that Mickey is actually fucking kissing him, the man is already pulling away, eyes hooded and unreadable. His lips are red and swollen, glistening under the Ferris wheel lights, and the smallest of smiles tug at Mickey’s lips and then he’s gone.

If Ian adapts an irregular heartbeat, it’s all Mickey’s fault.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the longest chapter I have ever written (and will ever write!) I'm sorry if you got bored half way through it, I just kept on writing and writing!  
> Comments and kudos make me a happy shipper!<3


	8. i think i can fake it if you can

Mickey can taste Ian on his lips the entire way home.

There’s the reoccurring mixture of fear and hope that tightens Mickey’s chest whenever Ian’s around, especially on nights like these where they’re running and talking and laughing and Mickey is stupid enough to hope that this could be his new normal. He feels dizzy with every step up his porch; starry-eyed by all the combusting lights and spinning shapes of the fairground, intoxicated with Ian’s scent, reminiscence of searing heat and cotton candy on his lips. He keeps rubbing at his mouth, consciously, unconsciously – it’s all the same.

Walking into the empty Milkovich house, Mickey feels like an idiot.

There is something between them, now. Something Mickey was hoping would slip by them unlabelled, a warped mixture of friendship and lust and more trust than Mickey’s willing to give, but of course, Gallagher had to go and push them both over another stupid line.

‘It was just a fucking kiss,’ Mickey mutters to himself, shoving off his coat, angry and irritated over how worked up he’s getting –like a fucking _chick_ \- but it still doesn’t change the fact that Ian broke one of Mickey’s most prioritized rules. Mickey doesn’t kiss people, excluding the occasional kiss on Yev’s little forehead, and especially not guys. Sure, Mickey can stand a hickey or two during an intense fuck, but kissing. Kissing is just a fancy name to cover up unwanted emotions and vulnerability and predetermined carnage.

But for some stupid reason, when Ian had wrapped his stupidly large hand over Mickey’s arm and pressed his stupidly pink lips to Mickey’s, it didn’t feel like any of that. It was a deep-rooted sense of satisfaction and bliss that made him feel like he was fucking _expecting_ it to happen, wanting it to happen.

Which, Mickey realises now, he was.

It would have made it a whole lot easier if the part of him that wanted to grab Ian’s long fingers when they dipped into cheap ketchup and lick off the paste, to tear off his soaked shirt and run his hands up and down the man’s broad chest after Mickey sprayed water all over him, to grind up against Ian’s tantalising hips inside that carriage, was larger than the part of him that fucking _itched_ to reach over and capture his pouting lips in a desperate kiss. Sexual attraction wasn’t the problem; Mickey could blame it on testosterone and Ian’s prominent biceps and his challenging smirk, but things clearly weren’t okay when Mickey was met by the urge to just kiss the man 8 different times that night for no apparent reason, _fuck._

It was nothing more than the lingering of lips, really; no fireworks or blossoming flowers, just a warm buzz that flooded Mickey’s veins, electrocuted forgotten circuits, lifted his heart up and dropped it off of a cliff. Just the feeling of Ian and the word _‘finally’_ playing re-runs in his head.

Mickey doesn’t want to think about it, so he doesn’t. He swipes the pizza bagels Mandy left in the fridge earlier, switches on the TV to find Van Damme kicking some ass and let’s himself relax. Only a couple of minutes later, his phone vibrates in his pocket and Mickey pulls it out with a frown to find a text picture of himself in all his cotton-candy bearded glory, grinning madly and reaching to swat at Ian and his wretched phone.

Mickey snorts at the caption - **_Looking good, Milkovich –_** but doesn’t try to stop the growing grin on his face. Flipping off the camera, Mickey sends the photo to the idiot he regrets giving his number to, and not for the first time that night, an unexpected surge of complete and utter content floods over him.

He can deal with his probems in the morning.

-

Apparently it’s not as easy as it sounds because Ian has dedicated himself to making Mickey regret ever giving the man his number. They’re not even meaningful text messages, just random shit the guy finds fascinating, like how he squirted a smiley face onto a pancake with maple syrup at work, and he even sends pictures to correspond. And fine, maybe that’s kind of cute in a fucked up way, but waking up at ass o’clock in the morning to Mickey’s phone buzzing with pictures of the sunrise isn’t fun at all. Especially when the guy’s red hair is covering most of the sky.

Mickey doesn’t reply to the messages, except for the occasional unimpressed emoji, but he finds himself clicking open his phone whenever it buzzes and for a brief second, he allows himself to smile at whatever documentation of his life Ian has sent. It’s not that he’s ignoring him on purpose – fine, maybe he is - but Mickey really needs time to think on his own, clear out his thoughts, and come up with a battle plan on how to tackle the growing problem of Ian Gallagher and Mickey’s feelings. And nothing does that better than a day at work.

It’s Saturday morning, not even his shift, and Mickey doubts he’ll get paid extra for just showing up out of the blue but it doesn’t really matter. He just wants to get out of the house before Mandy wakes up- the front door slamming late at night let Mickey know that the girl was still alive and home – and starts interrogating him. Maybe he’ll go and see Yevgeny at the Alibi later.

As expected, fucking Gerard doesn’t pay him but he’s quick to show Mickey what needs fixing, and after making sure that Mickey has no ulterior motives than to get his hands dirty and blow off some steam, he offers him lunch with a genuine smile, greasy rag tossed over his shoulder. Mickey cranes his neck up to study his boss for a couple of seconds before passing up the offer.

He’s still fidgeting under a scrappy Toyota an hour later, wrinkling his nose at the pungent smell he still can’t get used to, and carefully tries to clip a faulty wire, fingernails cracked and greasy. Mickey remembers fixing up the same model years ago for Terry’s friend; the impressed look in their eyes, the pride surging through Mickey’s chest for being useful. Being a man. It makes his blood boil, now.

Footsteps halt next to Mickey’s head, black boots covered in scraps of dirt and white paint and Mickey’s about to tell Gerard to quit hovering while he’s working when the boots crouch down next to him, revealing blue jeans.

And Tony slides into the tiny space next to Mickey, nudging him over as he takes the wire from Mickey’s strained fingers and twists it effortlessly; face unusually serious as the machine hisses, and Mickey rolls his eyes.

‘Okay, Einstein, we all know you can fix a fucking car,’ Mickey scoffs, trying to shove Tony out of the tiny space but the fucker doesn’t budge, just turns to flash a toothy grin. After a couple of futile pushes, Mickey huffs out a sigh and waits for his brother to announce the reason for his presence.

‘Just helpin’ out my little bro’,’ and this time, Mickey does shove him, right out from underneath the car and onto his back. Tony just laughs, clutching his dirty wife-beater.

‘There a reason you wastin’ my time, asswipe?,’ Mickey says, crawling out to nudge Tony’s ribs with his shoe, but there’s no heat behind his words. It’s been a while since Tony came by the garage and Mickey sometimes forgets how skilled he is at the things he actually bothers with. Not that he’d admit it, but he kind of missed just lazing around under cars with Tony- he was the one who got Mickey the job in the first place, so credit is where credit’s due.

‘Got the car back, Mickey.’

Mickey’s eyes widen and Tony just grins again.

‘Fuck, really?’

‘Took nothin’, too. Gallagher seemed scared out of his fucking mind. I do that sometimes,’ Tony drawls lazily, hands outstretched underneath his head.

‘Yeah, okay. You’re about as threatening as a fucking puppy,’ Mickey snorts, wiping his hands on his jeans. ‘Get up before a car runs you over, bitch.’

‘Aww, you worried, Mick? Coming out turned you all soft.’

‘Nah, cleaning up your blood just isn’t worth the hassle.’ Mickey’s phone buzzes and without much thought, he pulls it out, and of course, his fingers are still oily and the wretched thing slips out of his hand and lands right in front of Tony’s face.

It’s a picture of a grinning Ian and Liam, grinning widely with their Batman face paint.  

_Fucking A._

‘Uh, why is a fuckin’ nanny sending pictures of their kid to you?’

Mickey tries to reach for it but Tony quickly holds it out of his reach, squinting his eyes as he scrutinizes the picture. When a look of realisation dawns on his face, Mickey knows he’s fucked.

‘Ay, isn’t this the red-head you hauled over your shoulder that one-‘

Mickey snatches the phone back, stuffs it into his pocket and picks up his ratty backpack as Tony’s cut-off sentence fades into a tense silence. Fuck the Toyota, he isn’t even getting paid for that shit.

‘You’re a Milkovich, Mickey. Don’t forget that.’

 _Don’t think I fuckin’ can,_ Mickey wants to say, but instead, he leaves without a word.

-

 

It’s around 3 at night when Mickey’s phone buzzes from underneath his pillow, and he swears to God that he will kill whoever it is on the other line (and double kill Svetlana if she’s calling to order more diapers) except for the fact that the caller ID is unknown and it might be something important. So with a loud curse, Mickey blindly taps his phone screen and hopes for the best.

‘What the fuck is it?,’ he grunts, voice thick with sleep. The line on the other end is silent but Mickey’s ears are sharp after years of breaking the law and he can pick up on steady breathing. It just makes his eyebrow twitch.

‘You got somethin’ to say, shithead, say it- I don’t have time to wait around for you to learn how to form fuckin’ words.’

He’s just about to hang up – because seriously, Mickey needs his beauty sleep- when a soft voice meets his ears.

‘Hey, it’s, uh, me,’ and then Ian’s chuckling sheepishly. ‘Got a minute?’

He’s pissed off, of course he is, but Mickey’s anger is nothing compared to the warm feeling of ease that floods his body at the sound of Ian’s voice. But there’s no way in hell he’s telling that to Ian, so he settles for his regular crankiness.

‘Well, seeing as you woke me up in the middle of the fucking night just to ask for permission to talk, I’d say I got a fuckin’ minute.’

Another chuckle, louder this time.

‘Yeah, that was kind of lame, sorry.’

His voice is soft on the phone, a hushed whisper, and Mickey is taken aback by the intimacy of them talking quietly on the phone in the middle of the night, like bed talk. He can almost see Ian lying next to him, fingers curling into the sheets and eyes flickering over Mickey’s face, and suddenly, Mickey’s bed feels too big.

‘Okay, insomniac, if you’re done ruining my night’s sleep-‘

‘Don’t leave,’ the younger man blurts out suddenly, and Mickey can’t help but furrow his eyebrows in worry at the edge of panic in his voice. He shifts into a more comfortable position, completely focused on Ian’s words.

‘M’ not leavin’, Gallagher,’ Mickey assures softly, carefully. ‘Now will you tell me what the fuck is up?’

Mickey can’t remember being so gentle with anyone in his life. He doesn’t know where he draws the patience from, the tenderness in his voice sounding foreign to him. Ian is quite for a long moment on the other end before he sighs, sounding weary.

‘Just- Frank came back home. Told ‘em all about how I attacked him. Fiona and the others really don’t care about Frank but now they know what I’m capable of. I saw how Lip looked at me, like-‘

‘Fuck Lip, he’s an asshole,’ Mickey can’t help but butt in. He hates the defeat in Ian’s voice, the way he’s speaking in short sentences, like he can’t summon the energy to finish his train of thought, and if that prick Phillip had anything to do with it…

‘All that matters,’ Mickey presses, ‘is that you’re okay. You’re doing good, Gallagher, you’re takin’ your meds-‘

‘Yeah, yeah,’ he cuts in softly, and Mickey can imagine him gulping, red bangs falling into his eyes. He waits for something else, but the man just breathes on the other end of the line, so Mickey does the same; lies back down on his pillow with his phone pressed to his ear as he zones in on the man’s steady breathing, staring up at the cracks in the ceiling. The call is going to cost him, really cost him, but he can’t bring himself to care. Mickey’s sure he’s a second away from falling asleep again when Ian finally speaks up, voice thick and muffled.

‘I like listening to you breathe.’

Mickey erupts in laugher.

‘How’d I get pinned with such a fuckin’ creep?’

Ian laughs along, spurting out words of defense that Mickey can hardly make out from the sound of his own hysterical laughter.

‘It calms me down, okay? You need to open up your mind, Mickey!’

‘Nah, what I need is a fuckin’ restraining order.’

‘There’s nothing strange about this!’

‘Fuck yeah, there is! Tell me you don’t find it even a little creepy if someone calls you in the middle of the night to tell you that they like listening to you fuckin’ _breathe_!’

‘Fine, I won’t call you again,’ Ian huffs out with a laugh, and Mickey just chuckles slowly with a shake of his head. Fucking Gallagher.

 ‘Thank God. You better pay my phone bills, too, ya’ hear me?’

A content ‘Mmm’ reaches his ears, and after threatening to chop off Ian’s red hair if he doesn’t pay up, Mickey huffs out a laugh and hangs up the phone. Doesn’t say good night, because that would make him feel like a fucking lady- the warm feeling in his stomach is bad enough.

-

Svetlana’s perched on one end of the bed when Mickey wakes up, her back a stiff line as the knobs of her spine protrude the thin fabric of her dress. _She should eat more,_ he thinks. She should eat more and wear warmer clothes. He wants to remind her that she’s not out on the streets anymore, doesn’t need to wear skin tight dresses and starve herself to survive. He wants to remind her that she’s got a home, now, but the words don’t form right in his mouth.

 A delighted cry pierces through his right ear and Mickey curses out grumpily, sitting up to find a giggling Yevgeny happily munching on Mickey’s sock, drooling all over his pillow. It’s cold, too cold for Yevgeny to be lazing around in nothing but a diaper, and the kid coughs throatily, still smiling.

That’s when he knows something is different about the way Svetlana is silently staring off into space, oblivious to her son’s attempts at digesting cloth, and Mickey lies still for a long moment before opening his mouth to address his wife.

She beats him to it, though, turning her head to the side and biting out words in resignation.

‘Terry’s back.’

-

The Milkovich home erupts in volcanic chaos but the spouts of lava barely touch Mickey’s feet. Instead, he perches against the chipped marble counter, beer quickly replacing his morning coffee as he sips quietly, jaw clenched tight.

Svetlana is throwing her lanky arms about, shouting at no one in particular in harsh Russian but shouting all the same, while Iggy tries and fails to reason with her. Tony takes his place and eventually calms Svetlana down, and Iggy’s phone rings as he curses, and Mickey takes another gulp of cold beer.

It’s all just a blur, moving figures, shouts, doors slamming, Yevgeny crying, and Mickey’s still trying to catch up. Why isn’t he reacting? Where’s that fiery anger he has always relied on? Iggy’s noticed Mickey’s silence, too; keeps shooting fearful glances at him like he’s stuck between ducking under the table if Mickey suddenly explodes and knocking him out of his trance. But in the end, he does neither, pressing his phone to his ear as he argues over the phone.

Mandy storms into the living room, purple beanie tugged tightly over her ears, and Mickey notices a hickey on her neck, wonders where she’s been. If she’s had a proper dinner last night, if whatever douche bag she was out with treated her right. The smile slips off her face as she notices the palpable silence, and Mickey wants to say _No, keep smiling._ He should really put his drink down but the bottle keeps attaching itself to his dry lips, a soft clink of teeth against glass every time, a rhythm played faster with every passing minute.

‘What are we going to do?,’ Mickey hears, a hushed whisper, and when he turns to his sister, she looks exactly the same as she did all those days ago, the same small girl caught in something her fierce bravado couldn’t shield her from. The only difference is that her hair is lighter, hands less shaky, and there are hickeys on her neck where bruises used to be.

Setting his bottle down, Mickey realises he’s not in the habit of making the same mistake twice.

‘You,’ he addresses, walking straight up to Mandy from where she’s stood in the living room, hair falling in her eyes. He stands right in front of her, ignoring Svetlana’s heavy gaze and Iggy’s tentative pause on the phone, and if they were any other brother and sister, Mickey would have cupped her pale face in his hands, squeezed her hand.

‘You are going on the next flight to Indiana, you hear me? Pack your shit up, Mandy, get out of here,’ Mickey presses, the concern in his voice softening the blow of his words. Almost immediately, her wide eyes narrow in resolution as she shakes her head, jaw tight.

‘No, no, that’s not happening-‘

‘ _Yes,_ it fucking _is_ , whether you like it or not.’ Mickey steps forward, clutches at Mandy’s hands and forces her to look at him. ‘I’m serious, Mandy.’

‘So am I, okay? I’m not the one that needs protecting, Mickey! Why don’t you get that?,’ Mandy shrugs off Mickey’s hands and pulls her hair back behind her ears.

‘It’s not me that Terry’s after, it’s not Svetlana, it’s not Tony and it’s not fuckin’ Iggy. It’s you, Mickey,’ she pleads as Mickey digs his fingernails into the skin of his palm, looking away from his sisters clear blue eyes. He doesn’t know what to say.

‘H-He’s gonna’ be after your ass when he gets out, probably bring a bunch of his bastard friends-‘

‘- _I know_ ,’ Mickey snaps, finally turning to face his sister.

‘So what the fuck do we do?,’ Mandy shoots back, determination and confidence in her voice, holding Mickey’s gaze until he’s forced to nod, to remember that they’re all in this together, always have been.

‘They said they’re not allowed to disclose inmate information, whatever the fuck that means, even though I told ‘em I was his son,’ Iggy mutters, shoving his phone back in his pockets as he joins them in the living room with Svetlana by his side.

‘Fuck, he was supposed to be in there for 4 years!,’ Mickey exclaims, running a hand through his hair as Mandy fidgets beside him.

‘It ain’t ‘cause of overcrowding, though. They’re not stupid enough to make the same mistake twice, but then again, they’re fuckin’ cops,’ Tony mutters, taking a squirming Yevgeny out of Svetlana’s arms and bouncing him lightly on his hip. If it were any other time, Mickey would’ve laughed at the image, the baby so small and out of place in Tony’s large hands, but right now, the action was oddly comforting.

‘All we know for sure,’ Iggy presses, ‘is that we’ve got a week to get our shit together.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idek what this is i'm sorry  
> But yayy, I'm back! Sorry it's been so long, had to study for exams :( I've lost the flow of the story so I apologise for the bland, filler chapter, but I have great plans for the ones following! <3
> 
> Please don't be too harsh on this one, and have a wonderful Christmas eve! xxx


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